


Make Some Noise

by Not_You



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Cuddling & Snuggling, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Makeup, Mental Health Issues, Music, Nervous Will Graham, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Why Did I Write This?, will is doing better these days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 31,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: The one where Hannibal is a bored symphony pianist who joins Will's band.





	1. Ready To Jam

The first time Hannibal sees Dog Star live is in a Baltimore gay bar. The frontman just stands there with his back to the audience as his bandmates take their positions. He's shirtless and wearing black leather pants, and Hannibal would roll his eyes if the knobs of his spine didn't look so terribly vulnerable. He stands there with shoulder blades like wings, head tipped forward, nothing but a mass of dark curls. The unassuming little man on drums taps one cymbal, and the remarkably beautiful woman on electric violin plays a long, quavering note as the drums kick in properly. The singer doesn't turn, but starts to sway just a little. The keening violin and the drums wrap lovingly around each other, and Hannibal places the song just before the singer finally makes his contribution.

 _"You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever,"_ he purrs, and there's something so dark and so raw in his voice that it gives Hannibal chills. He bites off the sounds of _the violence of the sun_ in an incredible, bloodthirsty way that makes Hannibal resolve to find all of their work that he can. The singer starts to do something a bit closer to dancing, rolling his scarred shoulders and tossing his head, but he doesn't turn around, and the lean muscle of his back shifts under the skin in a way that Hannibal finds he can't look away from. That dark voice rises high and feral over the trembling mermaids and the sparkling waves. 

By the end of that line, he's finally facing his audience, and in Hannibal's opinion, definitely worth the wait. His teeth flash like fangs, and his eyes are a vivid, all-seeing blue. Hannibal almost expects to see lightning at his fingertips, and the band is keeping up with him, backing him up in the truest sense of the phrase. During the bridge he sinks into their music, boneless and free, only to tighten up again, prowling a step forward, looking like a satyr or a tomcat, his voice caressing the girl as she dances through the turquoise.

After opening with a cover, they perform a song of their own apparently called Panthalassa, which has some synth in it and is less engagingly raw. It's still a good song, and the songs remain good enough that Hannibal stays for their entire set, something he hadn't planned on doing.

In the months that follow, he hears 'Panthalassa' on the radio, cleaned up, and in his opinion, overproduced. Still, it's an engaging little piece, and he enjoys keeping track of Dog Star as they start to appear on the charts.

It helps to have a new interest, because Hannibal is bored of the symphony, and unlike Tobias with his constant bitching about their awful brass section, he is going to do something about it. He isn't sure what, when word reaches him that Dog Star is looking for someone to play synth. The idea of being in a rock band at this point in his life is so ridiculous that Hannibal feels compelled to call the manager and offer his skills for a day, on the understanding that he'll stay on if he turns out to be a good fit.

The night before he's due at the studio, he listens to every Dog Star track that he can find. As usual, their best stuff is their most obscure, songs like 'Chair Made Of Antlers,' and 'Becoming.' The use of synthesizer is fairly pedestrian on most of their songs, and Hannibal decides that they are well shut of their former synth player, Paul Krendler. When Jimmy Price takes the wheel things are much better, but Hannibal can feel the lack of the drums. They need someone at least as skilled on keyboard to free Price up for the drums, and Hannibal thinks that he might be just the person they're looking for.

Hannibal finds himself listening to each track again and again, and as he has so often in his life, he stays up far too late on the night before a busy morning. He has become used to his own shortcomings, and finds his way to the studio early, bright-eyed and full of Modafinil.

Crawford, the band's manager, greets him with a firm handshake and a reminder that he might not be what they're looking for. He said as much when Hannibal first asked about the position, and Hannibal nods. “I understand,” he says, setting his briefcase down and going to the synthesizer, examining its various settings.

“You the guy from the symphony?” A woman that he vaguely recognizes as lead guitar asks, tossing her head to get her gleaming black hair out of her eyes as she approaches him.

“I am,” Hannibal says, sitting down and running through a quick series of scales on the harpsichord setting.

She grins at him. “I think this is gonna be fun,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Hannibal says, and she goes to fetch it, coming back a moment later with two foam cups and a handful of sugar packets and creamers. Hannibal prefers his coffee black when he doesn't have access to real cream, but he uses a hazelnut creamer to show his appreciation for Beverly's thoughtfulness.

“You ready to jam?” she asks dumping sugar into her own cup, and he chuckles.

“I believe so," he says, and Beverly grins.

“This is gonna be great,” she says, and Hannibal smiles, sipping his cloying coffee. "The guys should be here soon," she adds, and has only taken a few sips of her drink before one of her bandmates arrives. "Hey, Zeller!" Beverly calls. "This guy's gonna be on synth today, see how he likes us."

"All I like is coffee," Zeller growls, and goes in search of it. 

Beverly rolls her eyes. "He's always like that, the coffee doesn't even help."

Hannibal remembers the brooding bass player, lurking upstage like he doesn't care if anyone sees him or not, laying down lovely and complicated bass lines for the drums to flash and skip around. "I've worked with the saturnine variation of the artistic temperament before," Hannibal says, because he has. He really hopes this works out, and he doesn't have to go back to hearing Tobias complain.

The drummer arrives a moment later, an unassuming little man with a sunny smile. He comes over to shake Hannibal's hand like a civilized person, and compliments his tie. It still isn't quite nine-thirty, but there's no sign of Will Graham, the most compelling member of this enterprise.


	2. Exactly Crazy Enough To Work

Will slouches into the studio at half-past nine with Buster and Winston at his heels. He doesn't always bring them, especially because some of their songs make Buster howl, but on a day like today he feels the benefit of canine company. Jack has found them some kind of symphony pianist to run the synth so Jimmy can provide real percussion without a bunch of layering. 

None of them like to put the drum line on the synth, so they're going to need someone to at least finish this album, even if they can limp through the tour afterward on their own. One of the interns hands him a cup of coffee and he mumbles his thanks, slumping into a chair. The dogs curl up at his feet, their paws drawn in neatly, the way they've learned to do with this many people stomping around.

Will sips his coffee and cracks his neck, watching as Beverly talks to the techs and Brian tunes his bass. Jimmy is of course setting up his little table with wood-blocks, a cowbell, a tambourine, and that fucking ocarina that's probably part of why 'Panthalassa' is a hit. The actual set is beside it, for when he's not being weird. The synth stands alone, waiting. Will offers up a silent prayer that the symphony pianist is someone that he can stand to be around.

The man who comes wandering in from the bathroom does not inspire confidence. He's all elegant bone structure and windowpane check, dressed in a three-piece suit and tie when Will is wearing torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt over a ribbed undershirt that he can only hope is clean.

"Good morning," he says, coming over and extending a freshly-washed hand. "I'm Hannibal Lecter."

"Will Graham," Will says, shaking it without rising. He studies Hannibal, wondering again just what the hell Crawford and the man himself are thinking.

"I'm looking forward to broadening my repertoire," Hannibal says, releasing Will's hand.

"If you have bothered to join us, young man," Beverly says, approaching them, "why don't we get started?" She may not be the manager, but Beverly does a lot of managing. She says that it's big sister experience being reapplied, and now Will hauls himself to his feet and stretches.

"You're right," he says, and then turns to Hannibal. "You know 'Paint It Black'?"

Hannibal does know 'Paint It Black,' and sets about proving it after everyone tunes up. It takes him a measure or two to fall into the rhythm, but soon he's letting Jimmy's drumming carry him along, and adding spooky little flourishes up in the high notes. Will likes them, and by the time they get to the end of the song, he's feeling like this might be just crazy enough to work. 'Paint It Black' had really shown up the limitations of the last guy they had on synth, which is part of why Will wants to start with it. The other is that his growl is better early in the day, and he can tell that Crawford agrees. He hardly ever considers the first cut of the day worth recording, but he got this one.

Hannibal stretches his arms and smiles appreciatively down on his variety of settings. Thankfully, the synth is legally Beverly's property, and as such, belongs to the band. It's a very good one. She gives it a loving pat as she goes by in search of water, and Will hauls off his sweatshirt, tossing it onto a chair. The cold, sober light of the studio doesn't reveal any stains, at least. He catches the bottle of water Beverly tosses to him as she comes walking back with an armful. She has said that she doesn't think of herself so much as taking care of them as of taking care of herself and dragging her benighted bandmates along behind her. Either way, Will is grateful. Jimmy and Hannibal thank her politely, while Zeller makes a vaguely thankful noise in his throat before opening the bottle and downing half of it.

"All right," Crawford says from the booth, "if you guys have broken the ice, let's try..." there's an amplified rustling of papers, and then Crawford's voice again. "I've got sheet music for most of the album here, how about 'All I Need Is A Stream'? The synth part is easy to pick up."

Will shrugs. "Don't see why not." 

He doesn't think of Stream as his best effort, but as Beverly has pointed out to him, he never really likes anything upon review. One of the interns comes in with the sheet music, and it's weird to see it. Everyone else has had Stream memorized almost since the band formed. It's one of Will's oldest compositions that Crawford still thinks is worth the time, and he feels strange to watch Hannibal reading it for the first time.. His eyes are bright and alert, and he hums the melody to himself, almost inaudible, fingertips drumming on this thigh in a pretty good approximation of the rhythms Jimmy added so long ago.

"I think I'll be able to follow along," Hannibal says, propping the sheets up on the synth. When they get the signal to start, Hannibal starts the watery, meditative tones that begin the whole thing, and Will sways just a little as Jimmy and Zeller come in, chasing each other in slow circles. Beverly doesn't have much to do on this one until the first bridge, but they've tried the intro without her little birdlike flickers on the high notes, and it really does lose something.

'Stream' is about the benefits and drawbacks of his broken brain, but it's encoded in enough poetic crap that most people have no idea. Will keeps the vocals whispery and abstracted, still not sure if he likes them this way but unable to come up with anything better. Hannibal sounds pretty good, really catching the uncanny quality that the synth has always needed.

During the break afterward, Will introduces Hannibal to the dogs, and he crouches to their level and strokes both of them gently, talking to them in whatever Eastern European language colors his English. Will stands off to the side and swigs water. "There are more at home, these two are just the best at being calm in the studio."

"Do they help you stay calm?" Hannibal asks. Will makes a concerted effort to dislike him and can't quite do it. "Yes," he says, and Hannibal just smiles up at him, scratching Winston behind the ears.


	3. Eat Something, Goddammit

Dog Star makes good use of its studio hours, which Hannibal is glad to see even if lunch is almost unbearably late. He's sure that low blood sugar has something to do with the argument that Will and Zeller have about how much bass Broken Bones needs. Hannibal likes Broken Bones, and he is inclined to agree with Will, that on this one more is more, but there's no reason to fight about it, which is exactly what Jimmy tells them, rising from the set to gently interpose himself.

"Split the difference!" Crawford growls from the booth. There's a pause, and then he adds, "And eat something, goddammit."

Naturally, Hannibal has brought a baguette and a small cooler full of very good ham and cheese, but the others are reduced to ordering some extremely substandard pizza. The greasy boxes make him shudder in revulsion, but he does his best to be polite as the others stack slices to eat two and three at a time. Hannibal assembles his sandwich and observes the band at rest.

Beverly is telling Jimmy all about some gymnastics event in the life of a little niece, complete with evocative hand gestures, and Zeller is pretending not to listen, moodily gnawing on his pizza. Will has just come back from taking the dogs outside, and slouches into the chair beside Hannibal with two slices of appallingly greasy pepperoni on a paper plate. The dogs look hopeful, but lie down politely, without begging.

"Why am I not surprised to see that your lunch is a class act?" Will asks.

"I couldn't say," Hannibal says, wiping butter off of his knife.

"We don't always order out, and it's usually better than this," Will assures him. "The closest pizzeria can't always be the best."

"I suppose not," Hannibal says. "Baguette?" he asks, tearing a piece off. 

Will hesitates, and then reaches for it. "Thanks," he says softly.

"You're welcome," Hannibal says, and Will smiles.

"Where are you from?" he asks, splitting the bread and scraping the cheese and pepperoni off of its awful, doughy crust and onto the bread.

"Lithuania, originally," Hannibal says. "But I've spent time in other places."

Will nods. "I grew up all over the southeast, with some time in Michigan. Always the new kid at school."

"Being a stranger is sometimes a heavy burden," Hannibal murmurs, and Will gives him a narrow, suspicious look.

"Don't analyze me, Hannibal."

"Do people tend to?" he asks.

"People I don't like, anyway," Will mutters, and Hannibal smiles.

"I will do my best not to join that unhappy group," he says, and Will snorts, smiling just a little.

"This is really good bread," Will says after a short silence during which he eats most of it.

"The closest bakery to my house really is the best," he says, and Will chuckles. He tears off a few pieces of the terrible crust, and gives some to each of the dogs. They take the pieces politely, and devour them with relish, tails wagging. "They really are well-behaved," Hannibal says softly, and Will smiles.

"When you have as many as I do, they have to have good manners," he says, wiping his hands on a paper napkin.

"Like children," Hannibal says, and Will laughs.

Crawford calls the group to order a moment later, and sets Hannibal to reading sheet music in the booth while the others work on some backing tracks to be layered in later. At one point Will and Beverly trade places, Will strumming rhythm as Beverly lets out a series of operatic shrieks that are like slivers of ice melting into Hannibal's bloodstream. She really is beautiful, but his eyes keep turning toward Will, who is somehow better than beautiful.

"I swear, he's worth his weight in gold," Crawford murmurs, and Hannibal chuckles.

"He's slender, you might be underselling him."

"Maybe. What do you think so far?"

"I feel like 'My Design' and 'Pendulum Swing' were both simplified for the limitations of Mr. Krendler."

"They were," Crawford says. "How would you do it?"

With this positive invitation, Hannibal finds a pen and starts adding notation. 'Pendulum Swing' is jazzy, and would benefit a great deal from a quicker, more complicated synth part. Hannibal hums it to himself as he writes, and seamlessly moves on to 'My Design.' It has an uncanny sound, and Hannibal gets more and more frustrated as he tries to indicate just the right sounds. Finally he stops.

"Mr. Crawford," he says, "may I bring in my theremin?"

"Call me Jack," Crawford says, "and sure, why not? I let Jimmy bring in any damn thing he likes."

Hannibal makes a note to see if Dog Star agrees with him about adding theremin to 'My Design,' and moves on. He has just finished looking over 'Fever Dream' when Jack tells him to rejoin the others. He takes the sheets with him, and does his best to keep up with the others as they take several rough cuts in succession. It's a lot looser and more interesting than symphony rehearsal, and Hannibal is surprised to find that it's six pm already. Later on they'll probably have some late nights, but for now everyone can move out at half-past six. Will leads the way, taking his patient dogs out to relieve themselves on the studio's tiny patch of green. Beverly and Hannibal share the elevator down to the ground floor while Jimmy and Zeller hang back to talk to Jack.

"I feel like this was a good day's work," Hannibal says, and Beverly laughs.

"It was. Between you and me and the elevator, Krendler was just what we could get. It's awesome to have a real musician on keyboard, you don't even know."

"I may have some inkling," Hannibal says, and tells her enough about the deficiencies of the symphony's brass section that she's laughing when they walk out into the dusk. Will and his dogs are chasing each other in circles on the grass, all three of them panting and happy. Hannibal smiles, and Beverly breaks away to join Will and the dogs, making monster noises as she catches Buster and pretends to chew on him.


	4. Weird But Solid

It's always good to come home to the rest of the pack. They crowd around Will's legs on the porch, ecstatic to see him and to see Winston and Buster, as well. After everyone has taken a moment to run around and pee on things, Will leads them back inside and hands around the artisan dog treats he always rewards them with for guarding the house and taking good care of each other, before going into the kitchen and throwing a frozen dinner into the oven for himself. It will be a wrench to leave the dogs when he's on tour, but he knows he can trust Alana to look after them.

As if his thoughts have summoned her, she calls him, and he settles on the couch to talk to her while he waits for his meal to heat. They're still dancing around each other, and has Will has no idea how to translate all her mixed signals, but the one constant is that she cares and is easy to talk to. Will will take what he can get.

"So," she says, after the usual greetings, "a friend of mine said he was going to sit in with you guys, has that happened yet?"

"That was today," Will says, shifting to lie full-length with his feet propped on the arm of the couch. "I didn't know you knew Hannibal."

"Of course I know Hannibal," Alana says, "he taught me to play piano. How did it go?"

"Well enough that he's coming back tomorrow," Will says, and she makes a delighted little noise. "I can't say this early whether he's a good fit, but he's talented and the dogs like him."

"Sounds like a start, anyway," Alana says. "I feel like he's been wanting to be more creative for some time."

"Who the hell even is this guy, Alana? He showed up in a three-piece suit."

Alana laughs. "Was it plaid?"

"I think windowpane check, technically. Silver on almost-purple."

"Sounds like Hannibal," Alana says. "He's definitely a character. He's weird, but he's solid, and definitely a real musician. God, I wonder if he wants to tour with you. I know you don't know if you want him yet, it's just a compelling mental image."

"I think he'd implode if he saw some of the dives we play. And stay in."

Alana laughs. "Maybe so, but when I made him watch _Pretty Woman_ he just sat there and analyzed it through Jungian symbolism and enjoyed himself immensely, so you never know."

"Sounds like a sick and twisted mind. Maybe this _will_ work."

He talks to Alana until it's time to retrieve his food, and then settles into his usual evening routine of eating off of his knees while he works on songs, dogs piled up around him. Will does some of his best work with the dogs close like this, and tonight is no exception. He manages to whip 'Blood Eagle' and 'On The Mushroom Farm' into some kind of shape, even if they're probably too weird and horrible for the rest of the band. 

'Mushroom Farm' is basically a transcribed nightmare, so it's not as if Will can blame them. Still, it's nice to have both compositions in some kind of order. Incomplete songs get stuck in his head until he finishes them, and it is not a pleasant experience. Now the weird, churchy tones of one and the creepy broken down carnival music of the other will leave him alone, and he sighs in satisfaction and relief when he closes his notebook, setting it on the coffee table beside his empty tray.

Will takes the dogs out for a real walk as it gets darker and darker. He only needs to switch on his headlamp under the trees, though, the glowing windows of the house acting as a beacon for their return. The dogs pile onto the bed with him, and when he jerks awake from a nightmare at four am, they make sympathetic noises and lick his face. Will soothes himself by soothing them, and gets up to wash the slobber off of his face and take a leak. He goes back to bed and ends up sleeping a little too late, and by the time he has the dogs fed, watered, and walked, he can't get to the studio before ten am.

Naturally, Crawford is frowning at his watch when Will comes in, dogless and frazzled, but the others are laying down an excellent version of Dog Star Shuffle, which Will is still convinced doesn't even need him. Technically there are a few lyrics and he's supposed to do some howling, but he keeps thinking it would work better as a straight instrumental. Hannibal's hands fly over the keyboard, and it's really nice to hear the part played well. Really well, and Will zones out, listening to the band instead of Crawford's speech about punctuality. 'Dog Star Shuffle' has never sounded so good.

"I know you're not even listening anymore," Crawford grumbles at last. "Get out there and get to work."

Will just nods and grabs some coffee, downing it before he goes to the mic. "What are we doing next?" he asks Beverly, and she smiles.

"Well, since you're here now, maybe we can get through 'Hippocampus,' if your pipes are up to it."

"Only one way to find out," Will says, and glances back at Zeller. "Whenever you're ready," he says, since 'Hippocampus' begins with the bass alone. 

Zeller nods, starting the tense bass line. Jimmy joins him a moment later, tight and quiet on the snare. Hannibal picks up with the soft, high tones that hold it all together and keep the whole track from being too fast, and then Beverly comes in on violin, because guitar isn't quite high and desolate enough. Will closes his eyes and sways with the synth. This is so much better than working with Paul, and Will sighs, relaxing into the music and beginning to sing. This one starts out soft, and gets more and more frantic as it goes, whispering to growling to keening. 'Hippocampus' is hard work, but it's also a lot of fun, even first thing in the morning.


	5. Synthesis

Hannibal strives to be a professional, but Will's performance captivates him. The lithe muscles in his back shift in time to Hannibal's playing, and he has to admit to himself if to no one else that Will's ass in his faded jeans is hypnotic, nearly as beautiful as his versatile and powerful voice. 'Hippocampus' is about memory and place, longing and isolation, the lyrics filled with references to the sea and navigation, as well as to the brain structures and mythological beings of the same name. The track resonates with love for the water in the middle of desperation for the shore, and the singer's feeling that he, too, is an impossible union of conflicting parts. It gives Hannibal goosebumps, and he holds his final notes for a little longer than the sheet music says to.

"I still want to add bells to that," Jimmy says in the silence afterward, and Hannibal smiles.

"On another layer," he asks, "or would you just hang them next to the set?"

"Hopefully I can try both," Jimmy says, and asks Hannibal's opinion on just which of the eight different kinds of bells he owns it should be. 

Will yawns and cracks his neck, shrugging out of his flannel shirt and knotting the sleeves around his waist, and Hannibal does his best not to lose track of the conversation. He manages to make a couple of intelligent suggestions, even as he covertly ogles Will. This is a terrible situation to be in, but terrible is not boring, at least. This is a hell of a lot better than listening to Tobias's perfectly justified bitching about the brass section.

"All right, Jack," Will says, "you want us to do it again?"

"Just from the bridge," Jack says, "then try out Pendulum Swing with Hannibal's modifications to the synth part."

After Jimmy and Zeller find their place, the bridge is mostly Beverly's show, violin keening as Will's voice rises to meet it. The synthesizer's role is unfortunately too simple to really occupy Hannibal's mind, and the most he can do is not be obvious about the way he inevitably starts staring at Will again as he wails the last half of the song.

"Nice," Beverly says after the last notes fade, and Will grins at her over his shoulder.

"Thanks," he says, and looks toward the booth. "That better, Jack?" 

"It'll do for now," Jack says. "Hannibal, run through the changes alone and we'll see if you can do it together."

"Very well," Hannibal says, and demonstrates his modifications to the tune. 

Zeller is very taken with them, and has some embellishments to add to the bass line that make the whole thing mesh even better. Once he's too busy being enthusiastic to act broody, he seems both younger and much more pleasant. Hannibal catches Beverly's eye over his head as Zeller is hunched over the sheet music making little annotations in pen, and she winks at him. It really is nice to be more creative. Synthesis rather than interpretation, and new material rather than the same few tired selections. Hannibal's modifications present a definite improvement, and the band knows it. In the break after their first cut of this version, he seizes his moment.

"I asked Jack if I could bring my theremin," he says, addressing the room as he readjusts one rolled-up shirt sleeve, "but I have not asked you."

"A theremin?" Beverly says. "Jeez, I knew you were weird. That is so cool!"

"Definitely bring it," Jimmy says. "I will do my best not to creepily fondle it or drool on it."

Hannibal can't help a slight grimace at the image. "See that you do," he says, and turns to Will. "I was thinking that it would be very helpful on 'My Design."

Will nods slowly, considering it. "I've always wanted that one to sound weird, I just don't want to upgrade that to b-movie status."

"I understand your concern," Hannibal says, "but I think that with care, we can avoid that."

They spend the rest of the day on standard cuts because Hannibal doesn't have the theremin with him, not comfortable with the idea of it being marooned in his car if the others rejected the idea. Tomorrow he'll get to work with his second favorite instrument in the entire world. He makes a mental note to ask about the harpsichord, and then throws himself into his work.

Among the many differences from the symphony is the later hours, and they don't stop recording until ten o'clock at night and Hannibal doesn't feel nearly as tired as he would have if he had spent all this time slogging through some numbing selection he can play in his sleep and listening to the terrible brass section mangle its part of the proceedings.

"The time has come," the Walrus said!" Jimmy trills, once everything is packed up and they have said their farewells to Jack, who is headed straight home.

"For us to drink many things?" Beverly asks, slinging her jacket over one shoulder, and he grins at her.

"Of course!"

Zeller just rolls his eyes, but makes no actual objection, and Will turns to Hannibal. "You don't have to come if you don't want," he says, and the words form a rejection that Hannibal is pretty sure he doesn't mean.

"I think I do want to," he says, and Will smiles, bright and definitely genuine.

This is far from the first time Hannibal has been invited to drink with his colleagues, but rather than going into pretentious surroundings to sit on the edges of overstuffed chairs and sip grotesquely overpriced red wine, they pile into Zeller's van and take a short drive to a nice, honest dive. The wooden tables are scarred and carved with graffiti, and no one does anything to stop Will when he takes out a pocket knife and begins to carve an abstract fish.

"We always start with a round of Starry Dogs," Beverly says, "and unless you're allergic to grapefruit, we must insist that you join us."

"An initiatory cocktail?" Hannibal asks, strangely charmed by the idea.

"Well, it is named for us," Jimmy says, "so it's only appropriate."

Will looks up from his fish carving. "Edible glitter is involved," he says, and Hannibal appreciates the warning.


	6. Starry Dog

The Starry Dog is vodka, grapefruit juice, and a really insidious white grapefruit liqueur with a mixed salt-and-silver-glitter rim. The entire thing is Beverly's fault, but Will has to admit that he doesn't drink it solely for band cohesion. Hannibal smiles when he sees the tray of glittering glasses, but it's mostly affectionate, and he takes his initiatory drink seriously. He looks a bit like an anthropologist sampling the local poison, but the way he runs his tongue along his sharp teeth after the first sip is a bit more demonic. Will reminds himself that he has enough problems in his life without ogling the keyboardist, and knocks back half of his own drink.

"So I must ask about the origins of the Starry Dog," Hannibal says, after another sip, and Jimmy laughs.

"Beverly just thought we should have a signature drink. And that it should be shiny."

"I thought that it should echo our own kinda grunge-glam sensibility," Beverly says, "and I had the glitter on hand anyway..."

"Of course," Hannibal says, smiling at Beverly over the glittering rim.

"Leftover from a child's birthday party," she tells him. "You've joined a really cool band, y'know that?"

Hannibal laughs, and downs half of his drink. "I knew that from the moment I first saw you perform."

"Didn't know we had a groupie on our hands," Zeller drawls, because Zeller is an asshole. Will gives him a nasty look, sidelong, and Zeller just bounces it back. 

At least Hannibal just laughs and doesn't seem too pissed off. He tilts and rotates his glass, watching the cloudy white-gold drink glimmer in the dim light. "I'm too old to be a groupie," he purrs, "but I am a fervent admirer."

They keep it down to three rounds, since their median age is too high for Dog Star to thrive on hungover epiphanies, and Will is glad of it. He might do something stupid if he got properly drunk around Hannibal. It's weird, but there's something about his hands and those nearly-red eyes that draws Will in against his better judgment, and the deep purr of his voice isn't helping. 

Then again, Will has always been a sucker for keyboardists in general. It had been one of the only nice things about having Krendler on board, that utter lack of any charm. But it's the music that matters most, and Krendler was crap. Is crap, whatever group he's inflicting himself on now. Right alongside the raw, human gladness that Bella is settling nicely into remission, Will is also happy to have his manager able to really focus again. There are times when Will feels like he could cheerfully slit Jack up like a funeral suit, but when he's on, he's on, and this dangerous newcomer is exactly the man they need.

Everyone can drive by the time they need to, and once they're back at the studio parking lot they can disperse in their own vehicles. Watching Hannibal pull away in his rearview mirror, Will wonders how he is on the theremin, and if they can avoid sounding like Robot Monster. His drive home is filled with entirely too many Hannibal-related thoughts, and Will is far beyond glad to open the door and be swarmed by bounding, delighted dogs.

"Hey guys," Will says, and chuckles, petting whoever gets close enough as they run in circles and mark in their usual places. 

Once they've done that, he throws a few bottles of water into a bag and takes them on a long, long walk, wide awake under the full moon. He starts whistling early on, and by the time he and the pack make the way around the last of their homeward loop, Will is carrying empty bottles and the bones of a new song.

It's always hard to sleep when he has an idea, so right now Will doesn't try, sitting on the couch in a mass of dogs, sipping vodka because his father taught him not to change horses in midstream. His pen scratches across the little notebook, and he tinkers with the lyrics so long that he wakes up on the couch barely in time to feed the dogs and let them pee before he has to bolt to the studio. At least Crawford is mostly used to him by now, and this way Hannibal is already here and setting up his theremin. 

It's an interesting little piece of equipment, and Jimmy can't take his eyes off of it. Hannibal seems a bit afraid that he's going to try to touch it, but Jimmy is a man of his word, and keeps a respectful distance. Zeller grumbles into his coffee cup about temperamental bullshit when he has to move his mic, but Hannibal quite rightly takes no notice of this. Beverly has already shifted herself out of the theremin's radius, and is now sipping coffee and watching with bright, amused eyes as Hannibal works and Zeller attempts to wake himself up.

Hannibal turns with a smile the second Will sets foot in the booth, and Will smiles back, when he remembers to. "Settling in all right?" he asks, and Hannibal chuckles.

"We are, thank you," he says.

"You wanted to try this on 'My Design,' right? 'Cause I came up with one last night that could probably take some theremin, too."

"New music? Is it New Music Day?" Beverly asks, and even Zeller perks up a little.

"We do not have time for this, Will," Jack booms, and Beverly rolls her eyes.

"Aw, come on, just the one?" Jimmy wheedles, and Zeller snorts.

"Come on," he says, "you're the one said the album needed another track, that 'Ravenous' didn't really fit." Jack glares at him through the glass with what Beverly calls his 'stop being right' look.

"Fine. Give it to us acapella, let's see what you've got."

Jack always puts him on the spot, but Will is expecting it at times like these, so he just smiles and opens his notebook.


	7. Impromptu

"Don't laugh," Will says into the mic, "but I have to sing the intro." Hannibal wants to paint him, wants to capture those fine, nervous lines in rough charcoal, in marble, in music. Jack's only response is an impatient gesture. Hannibal can't speak for the others, but he doesn't feel like laughing at all.

Will hums a few soft, eerie bars, and opens his mouth to repeat himself in a low keen like the wind through the trees of an autumn night with no possibility of shelter. The melody becomes stronger and stranger, with an off-kilter madness that's truly delightful. When the lyrics come in, they fit. The central image is of the reflection in a windowpane, and of Will gazing into the voids where his eyes would be, communing with some dark and unacknowledged part of himself. It's haunting, but also weirdly autoerotic, and Hannibal can feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He flinches when Zeller starts a minimalist bass line, but it's only surprise. It's a very good bass line, and he admires Zeller's restraint. 

Jack rolls his eyes but doesn't actually stop the proceedings, so Hannibal sees nothing wrong with putting in the little keens on the theremin that the composition seems to call for. Jimmy joins them, and so does Beverly once she has her violin plugged in. For an impromptu arrangement, it's quite good, and even Jack can only grumble a little after Will brings them to a stop.

"We can use it," he says. "It's the same kind of creepy that made 'Antlers' stand out." Not the words Hannibal would use, but then again, the song is one of his favorites of Dog Star's repertoire. 

"One creepy track per album, huh?" Will asks.

"If I made that rule we'd never get anywhere with you," Jack says, and Hannibal feels a flash of real anger at the slightly hurt way Will laughs.

"I think the macabre aspects of your sound help to make you unique," Hannibal says quietly, theoretically addressing the whole band but looking at Will. A little of the tension leaves Will's shoulders, and he turns to smile at Hannibal.

"Thanks," he says softly, and Hannibal tries once again to name the exact blue of his eyes, somewhere between sapphire and cornflower.

"You're more than welcome," Hannibal says softly, and Will looks away and says nothing else. Hannibal isn't offended, he can tell nerves from deliberate rudeness.

They spend hours working on 'A Face Full Of Rain' and then move on to other tracks that need a little theremin. Hannibal doesn't get to play his second favorite instrument nearly enough, and he takes real joy in doing so now. The others are fascinated by how the uncanny sound mingles with their own instruments. Even Zeller draws nearer today, and actually has some good advice to give on how best to fold theremin into 'My Design.' Way leads onto way with musical ideas as well as footpaths and footnotes, and they don't even think to order lunch until three o'clock, devouring sub sandwiches and then getting right back to work.

There were days a little like this in the symphony, when every sound was right, and even the brass section was fine and clear and well-integrated with the rest, but this is better. Again, it's not interpretation, but creation, like fireworks against a supernova, and it's so much tighter, energy built and maintained between just five people, their own little mystic circle. Between shared inspirations and different versions of previously recorded songs they make a late night of it, and Jack tells them not to come in until noon tomorrow. He looks exhausted, but smiles when he checks his phone.

"How's Bella?" Will asks, and Jack blinks, coming back to himself.

"She's good," he says softly, tucking his phone away again, and Will smiles.

"Good. Give her my regards."

"Always," Jack assures him.

The whole group walks out to the parking lot, and Hannibal lingers there, watching everyone else load up and drive away. It's a balmy night, one of the first to really feel like spring, and he spends a long moment just enjoying it. Will seems to be doing the same, just leaning on his car and watching the moon work its way up the sky. Hannibal watches him, instead. After a while Will looks over at him, and blinks, as if he's surprised not to find himself alone.

"Good evening," Hannibal says, and Will chuckles.

"Don't you have a home to go to?" he drawls. He has one thumb hooked into his belt loop, and the lines of his forearm and the insolent tilt of his head make Hannibal want to draw him again. Will really is too beautiful for either of their good.

Hannibal smiles. "I could ask you the same," he says, and Will laughs.

"I should get back to the dogs. Nights like this, Alana comes by to let them out for me and make sure they have enough water, but it's still hard on them."

"How many do you have, in all?" Hannibal asks, and Will gives him a slightly defensive, sidelong look.

"Seven," he says, and he sounds like he's daring Hannibal to object. Hannibal has no objection, charmed by the image of Will, swarmed by seven adoring dogs.

"I can only hope to meet the other five at some later date," Hannibal says, a little surprised at how much he means it.

Will pauses for a moment, looking awkward and wary, on the verge of flight. "...You could follow me out there now, if you want. I'm probably not gonna get to sleep before four a.m. anyway."

"I would be delighted," Hannibal says, and Will chuckles.

"You would?"

"I like animals, Will," he says, and Will grins at him, getting into his car and waiting for Hannibal to do the same.

It's a long drive out to Will's home, and that doesn't surprise Hannibal. Will seems like someone who feels most at home on winding rural routes, two-lane roads that make their way through nature by the path of least resistance. His house stands alone in a brown field, and has the neat, self-contained look of a little boat.


	8. Sleepover

Will always feels weird when he has company, and it's only worse when it's company he wants to fuck. As usual, the dogs are a big help. They come bounding out of the house to give Will the usual ecstatic greeting, and then they swarm around Hannibal's knees, gazing up at him with big doggy grins, their tongues lolling out and their tails waving. Hannibal grins back at them, and croons to them in whatever Eastern European language colors his speech, petting each of them and really listening when Will tells him their names.

"Come for a short walk with us?" Will asks. "I'll be a real host and offer you a drink when we get back."

Hannibal smiles, thanking him in advance and bounding down the porch steps after the pack. Will follows, and moves to the head of the group to guide the dogs to the shortest of their various trails. Alana probably already took them this way, but they're pleased with it all the same. So is Hannibal, who walks with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking around with bright, curious eyes.

"I'm glad your home is so secluded, Will," he says after a long and unusually comfortable silence. "You seem like a person who needs privacy."

"In between the kind of exhibitionism that makes for a decent live act," Will says, with a derisive little snort at his own contradictions.

Hannibal smiles at him, barely visible in the dappled moonlight. "It makes sense to maintain a balance of extremes. You don't invite many people here, do you?"

"I don't," Will mutters, kicking at a clump of last year's dead grass.

"Then I am all the more pleased to be among the chosen few," Hannibal says, and the silence descends again, still so weirdly comfortable. They chase and romp with the dogs for a bit, and then come back around to the house, where Will lets everyone in.

"Beer, whiskey, or gin work better for you? You seem like a wine guy," Will says, going into the kitchen, "but I don't usually have that on hand."

"I'll have whatever you do," Hannibal says, and drapes himself over the couch like he lives here. 

Will pours them each some whiskey and comes to join him. Hannibal thanks him, his fingertips brushing Will's as he takes his glass. Will does his best not to shiver or anything, and sits down on the other end of the couch. The fireplace is cold, since Will was gone for too long for any banked embers to survive, and he gazes into the emptiness for a while before setting his drink down and going to start a fire. He can feel Hannibal watching him as he carefully arranges kindling, newspaper, and dry bark, and as he crouches on the floor and gently blows on the tiny flame. 

Nurturing a new fire is an involved process, but Will never forgets the presence of his guest, silent and watchful on the couch. The dogs shuffle and snuffle around in their own little canine orbits, and somehow Hannibal's presence just fits, nice and quiet. Before Will knows what he's doing he starts to hum 'Blood Eagle.' Hannibal listens for a while and then murmurs, "An original composition?"

"Yeah," Will says, and his voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. "It's a little too creepy for Dog Star."

"I like it," Hannibal says, and Will does his best not to do anything stupid, like hide under the bed.

"You do?" The fire is doing pretty well now, but Will doesn't turn away from it.

"I do," Hannibal says. "Are there lyrics?"

"There are, but I feel like the last verse still needs work," Will says.

Hannibal doesn't ask, but somehow Will ends up showing him anyway, this song that he hasn't even shared with Beverly. Hannibal takes the notebook like it's some precious artifact, and smiles down at the page. "I like this," he says at last. "I would enjoy playing the melody on harpsichord."

"You see what I mean about the verse, though," Will says, and Hannibal chuckles.

"Perhaps," he admits, and then asks, "May I?" pulling the pen from its resting place inside the spiral binding.

"Don't see why not," Will says, and adds more wood to the fire. 

Hannibal studies and scribbles for a while, and it's disturbing how comfortable Will is with this. He's still trying to figure that out when Hannibal gets up and goes to the piano, plinking out the melody for a while before he starts to sing the last verse. He hasn't changed much, but has managed to change everything, and Will listens in silent fascination. It will still take some tweaking, but it's so much more worth the effort now. 

When he says so, Hannibal laughs. "I try to help where I can," he says. "Speaking of, do you mind if I make us something to eat?"

"It might have to be Tuna Helper, but go wild," Will says, trying to remember what he has in the kitchen and how pathetic it is.

Hannibal chuckles, and goes to investigate. He moves around the kitchen in a very professional sort of way, and finds various little bits of things that Will had forgotten about, eventually sliding a pair of open-faced sandwiches under the broiler while Will pours them each another drink. 

It's late already and will only be later still by the time they've eaten, and Will takes a couple of deep breaths before he says, "You can spend the night here, if you don't want to have to drag your ass home at five a.m." He bites his tongue to keep from adding anything about not meaning anything weird because he doesn't even know if Hannibal is gay enough for that to be a concern.

"That's very kind," Hannibal says, "as long as it wouldn't be inconvenient for you."

"There's a guest bedroom upstairs. I bunk down here with the dogs. There's one bathroom per floor, we should be all right."

Hannibal smiles. "Yes. We should." He pulls their extremely late dinner out of the oven, and Will goes to make sure that there are clean sheets on the bed and toilet paper in the bathroom. He comes back to find what his father would have called 'shit on a shingle' plated like there's going to be some kind of ridiculous food-porn photo shoot, and has to smile.


	9. Care And Feeding

Hannibal is well-pleased just to be invited into Will's precious sanctuary, to say nothing of getting to feed him. When he enjoys watching someone eat this much, he knows he's in trouble. As usual, twisted old romantic that he is, he can't really bring himself to mind. And Will is _adorable_ , nibbling the edges of his sandwich with that alert, considering look that makes Hannibal want to hand-feed him. Will is like some beautiful little predator, vicious but fragile too, and Hannibal wants to gather all that tense strength in near his heart to stroke and soothe it. Let it take a bite of the beating red muscle, if it wants.

"Is there caraway seed in this?" Will asks, and Hannibal smiles.

"Just a little," he says, and Will snorts quietly.

"I didn't even know I had caraway seed."

"It was a neglected remnant, languishing in the bottom of the jar." Hannibal had opted to give it a warrior's death, and he's glad to find that it isn't too much, as Will thanks him again for the food and quickly makes the rest of his portion disappear.

By the time the dishes are taken care of the and the dogs have been given a last chance to relieve themselves, it's after four in the morning. Hannibal yawns, and Will grimaces, glancing at the time display on the microwave. "Come on," he says, and ushers Hannibal upstairs. He's irritated and tense and Hannibal knows that none of it is his fault, so he just smiles.

"I'm sure that I'll be very comfortable," Hannibal says, as Will opens the door to reveal a small bedroom with a window instead of wall art and what looks like an Army blanket on the bed. There's something kind of charming about the Spartan butchness of it all, and Hannibal's smile widens as he steps into it.

"Extra blankets in the closet," Will mutters, remaining in the hallway. "Leave it cracked for the dogs," he adds as Hannibal closes the door. Hannibal complies, and Will smiles through the crack in the door and says, "Sleep well," before going pink and quietly fleeing down the stairs. 

Hannibal chuckles, and makes a quick examination of the room which doesn't reveal much. There are indeed extra blankets in the closet, along with old fishing tackle and a pair of battered boots. As Hannibal regards these objects, Winston noses his way into the room to snuffle at Hannibal's trouser legs and wag his tail, grinning in delight as Hannibal strokes him. Hannibal murmurs nonsense to the dog as he shuffles around, putting himself in order for the night, and Winston listens attentively, feathered tail waving gently.

Naturally, the bedding does not smell like Will. It's all very civilized and scented with detergent and fabric softener, and Hannibal does his best to accept that with grace as he nestles down into the pillows. Winston curls up at the foot of the bed, and Hannibal smiles, glad of the company. He says so, in Lithuanian, and Winston wags his tail.

As he slides to sleep, Hannibal can't help but think about Will, here, in his house and technically in his bed. There is of course no scent of him in fresh sheets and disused blankets, and the extent of Hannibal's disappointment in that would alarm him if he was not already well aware of the danger. As it is he chuckles, and gently scratches Winston behind the ears, the pair of them slowly sinking into a doze.

Morning sunlight wakes Hannibal from a dream about fishing for mermen, and he smiles to find Buster and Querida curled up beside him. He wishes them a good morning and they both wag their tails, eyes bright. It must be hard to leave them when Dog Star tours. Blessed with their eternal canine Now, the dogs are not worried about that. They are worried that their guest is missing the day, and insist that Hannibal get up and put on clothes. 

In general Hannibal doesn't even sleep in his underwear, let alone wear the same pair the next day, but he supposes he'll survive this, even if there is a humid, stretched quality to the fabric that he dislikes immensely. Still, it wouldn't do to forget them in the car, where they would lie in wait to tumble out of the glove compartment the next time Hannibal needed to show a police officer his registration. Yesterday's clothes are neatly folded, and soon Hannibal is presentable. It's only a little past ten, so he makes his leisurely way down the stairs in search of coffee.

Will is still asleep, curled up on his side in his low bed. He's barely covered by the bedclothes, revealing an undershirt and boxer-briefs as well as a small scar on his left shoulder, the vicious and distinctive shape of a stab wound. The desire to press a kiss to it is inevitable, but Hannibal has moral standards and it would probably disturb Winston, who is lying against Will's back. He wags at the sight of Hannibal, and gets up to follow him into the kitchen, gazing up hopefully.

By the time Hannibal has the percolater filled and on the stove, Will is starting to twitch a little bit, and by the time the coffee is nearly ready he's sitting up and blinking, with the dazed look of someone who has been washed onto a strange shore. "We have more than enough time for breakfast," Hannibal tells him, and Will chuckles.

"You don't really seem like a cold cereal type, somehow."

"I prefer an egg and toast, at least," Hannibal agrees, taking the coffee off of the burner at the optimum time and pouring two cups as Will hauls on yesterday's jeans and lets the dogs out. Will takes sips in between pulling some homemade slop out of the refrigerator for the dogs and dishing it into seven bowls. The man eats cold cereal but cooks for his dogs. It's almost enough to bring a tear to Hannibal's eye. As it is, he scrambles eggs with whatever he can find, and Will is almost as adorably grateful for his breakfast as the dogs are for theirs.


	10. Some Fucked Up Eight-Legged Animal

Will scarfs down his breakfast because he's hungry and it's good, but about two-thirds of the way through he notices Hannibal watching him. He can't help but flush, his face going hot under that gaze. His table manners aren't that bad, but Hannibal is so relentlessly classy that maybe Will is doing something horribly wrong under his rules. There it is, the usual mix of embarrassment and hostility. Fuck this country club shit, Will doesn't hold his fork in his fist, doesn't make any weird noises, and chews with his mouth closed. That's all anybody fucking needs.

"I like to see people enjoying my cooking," Hannibal says very gently, as if he can hear Will's thoughts. He's doing the Continental thing, himself, and actually making it look elegant instead of awkward.

Will grimaces, looking away. "Sorry." Great, he's already being a defensive asshole. Perfect.

"I'm also just interested in observing you in your own environment," Hannibal adds, and Will chuckles.

"What, the studio doesn't count?"

"The studio is Dog Star's environment; when it's not onstage. It's a migratory organism," Hannibal says, and Will has to laugh.

"Some fucked up eight-legged animal, I guess."

"Yes, and I'm very pleased to be riding it or whatever I'm doing in this metaphor."

"Herding it, maybe. You've been a lot of help."

"Thank you, I've enjoyed every minute of it."

Will chuckles. "Even the minutes when Zeller is being a dick?"

"Even those minutes," Hannibal assures him, scraping up the last bite of his eggs. He glances at the clock, and Will follows, seeing that it's almost eleven now.

He's not at all surprised when Hannibal excuses himself to go home for fresh clothes. Will walks his guest to the door, feeling a demented urge to give him a wifely peck on the cheek in farewell. As it is he just pats Hannibal's shoulder and says, "See you at the studio."

Once Hannibal is gone, Will cleans up the remaining breakfast dishes, takes the dogs out, and just barely has time to shower and change and get going. He leaves Buster and Winston home today, but they take it well. It's a gorgeous, summery morning, and Will has a brief but extremely vivid fantasy of going fishing instead. The others would kill him and he would deserve it, of course, but the idea does more than just glance across his mind, especially because it would put off facing Hannibal again. Will doesn't know why he feels so fucking awkward, but he does and he can't deny it.

Hannibal's car is there when Will pulls up. Will takes a deep breath, wishes he had brought Winston, and then walks in as if this is any other day because it is, it's not like they slept together or anything. And then it turns out that today is actually very special, because Bella is here. The altered vibe goes all the way to the door, and the woman herself is one of the first people Will sees when he enters Dog Star's territory. Her hair has been back for some time now, but she still favors headscarves. Today's is a rich, royal purple, and Hannibal is saying something about Tyrian dye that makes her laugh.

Whatever awkwardness Will feels, Bella's presence helps with it. She's pleased to see him and they have a little catching up to do, so he's in a rational adult conversation almost before he knows it. Naturally, Jack has been playing the rough cuts for her. Bella always has something insightful to say, and she has a writing credit on 'Becoming' because she single-handedly saved the chorus. Now Will can't help but relax a little as she gives him her opinions, always soothed by talking about the music. Bella is delighted with Hannibal's little theremin flourishes, and has several good ideas for where to put more.

"Are you coming on tour after this?" Bella asks Hannibal, and he blinks, getting this faint, pleased little smile on his face. He looks touchingly surprised to be invited to play with the other kids, and yet again Will gets the feeling that Hannibal is an anthropologist from some other planet.

"You're the first to ask me," he says, and Will chuckles, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"Despite Jack's best efforts, we're not that organized," he says, and Bella laughs.

"Speak for yourself, Graham!" Zeller calls, playing some quiet scales in his usual corner.

"Give me your vote, then," Will says, and Zeller rolls his eyes.

"Why the hell not?"

"We're a democracy, you see," Will says to Hannibal, and he grins.

"I see."

"What's your vote?" Will asks. "Do you want to crash around the festival circuit with Dog Star?"

Hannibal's grin just widens. "I'd love to."

Will puts the question to Beverly and Jimmy as he sets his microphone up, and they're both in favor. Will can't help a sense of impending disaster, but Hannibal adds too much for Will to let his terror overwhelm his judgment.

Jack is more than a little irritated to come back from taking a phone call from the label to find Hannibal promoted from session musician, but he can't claim he wasn't going to offer. And of course Bella takes the blame, and Jack could never stay mad at her even before he nearly lost her. He puts his arm around her and admits defeat.

"You can't dress like that on tour," he says, raising an eyebrow at Hannibal's plaid suit.

"Would leather trousers be more appropriate?" he asks, utterly deadpan.

"Don't bite my style," Will shoots back, and Hannibal chuckles.

"Beverly and Jimmy combine to form the band's stylist," Jack informs him, which is quite true. "They'll let you know."

Hannibal bows slightly, and gets to work arranging his own instruments. Will has always been glad to spend most of his time on the mic, because getting his own head on straight and working out his morning hoarseness is about all he can manage right now. He'll need to do some of his own second-class strumming to back Beverly up, but that's a problem for the future. For now he sings the first verse of 'Black Tambourine,' pulling himself together with each note.


	11. Layering Work

Hannibal is surprised at how quickly the album comes together. They work long days, but it's time well spent, and Hannibal is glad to get to know each of his bandmates better through layering. He spends one whole morning accompanying Beverly's singing on the theremin. She has a rich, powerful voice, that shades up to a ghostly keen on the high notes. It's not without technical faults, but the flaws just make it more engaging, and Beverly proves herself capable of a very elegant and controlled vibrato. When he compliments her on it, she beams at him, dark eyes sparkling. He has no choice but to smile back, and to offer her part of his lunch.

"And here I thought you only fed Will," she says, and Hannibal shrugs.

"He seems to need it the most," he says, and that's only a lie of omission.

"Will does kinda have that lost-dog thing going on," Beverly agrees. "I actually have leftovers I was gonna eat today," she adds. "Homemade bulgogi, you in?"

Hannibal absolutely does want in, and soon they're companionably swapping recipes. Beverly probably is the most psychologically well-adjusted member of Dog Star, and Hannibal enjoys spending time with her. She is also absolutely the easiest to work with. He has the chance to compare her to Zeller and to Jimmy later, doing the same kind of one-on-one layering work with each of them in turn. 

He has had his suspicions that Zeller is surly out of insecurity, and sure enough, he turns out to be sort of sweet when he's not busy pretending that not to be as awed by Will's talent as the rest of them. He also has some surprising insights into keyboard arrangement, and gives Hannibal more than a few ideas for later.

Jimmy is actually more trying to work with, because of his sheer friendliness. There's a forwardness to him that becomes more than a little hard to take as time goes on, especially because he commits no positive act of rudeness, so Hannibal feels like a prick for minding. Still, he's a very gifted musician, and plays some of the finest gutbucket Hannibal has ever heard. Jimmy has a nicely omnivorous musical mind, and has a collection of strange and beautiful sounds, some taken from nature and others carefully created in his home studio.

"Really it's just a room with egg crate foam all over the walls," he says, over a fascinating track of what's apparently a broken sake bottle being sloshed in a metal bucket of water, "but it works."

Hannibal smiles. "You enjoy studio time more than the others, don't you?"

"Maybe a little," he says, switching tracks. "This is the rain on my roof last year," he says, "it was falling in these huge drops that had a really different sound, so I thought I'd catch some of it. And I think the rest of them do feel a little more confined, but I think Will also feels a lot safer when we're recording."

"His vulnerability onstage is a large part of his appeal as a performer," Hannibal says, "but it must be exhausting."

"You don't even know," Jimmy says, shaking his head. "He's got some wicked stage fright, even after all this time. I mean, you've seen us live, he eventually vaults over it like a pommel horse, but still."

Hannibal just nods, listening to the rain. It really does have a different sound, a kind of insistent percussion that will make an excellent backing track. "Are you free this weekend?" Jimmy asks. "For us to see what your tour wardrobe is going to be, I mean. I'm sure you have something."

"I will happily spend Saturday afternoon playing dress-up," Hannibal says, and Jimmy chuckles.

"That should work for Beverly, I'll ask her. She has all those niblings and cousins, you know, so she gets roped into attending soccer games and dance recitals and gymnastics competitions."

Hannibal smiles. "I know. My younger sisters are grown now, but I remember."

"I'm on the other side of it, most of the time, but I do show up for all my brother's science prizes."

"Of course you do," Hannibal says, and listens politely as Jimmy reels off his twin's accomplishments with a touching degree of filial pride. Hannibal is reminded of himself when Mischa passed the board, or any of Chiyoh's championship rifle titles. Jimmy is even polite enough to listen a bit in turn, and Hannibal finds himself actually looking forward to Saturday.

Hannibal spends Friday night specifically researching Dog Star's concert looks. He has noticed and approved of them already, but his earlier forays were all about the music. Tonight it's all about fashion. As a collective, Dog Star favors black leather, studs, skulls, nice sensible basics to hold it together, and judicious amounts of feathers, fishnet, and glitter. Will tends to limit himself to heavy eyeliner, but even he evinces a few glue-on crystals and the occasional black line or hand print. There's a shot of him in black leather pants and a matching feather boa that Hannibal wants to frame and hang over his bed. As it is, he gets up from the computer to dig through his own extensive wardrobe.

Hannibal has always had a weakness for clothes, and his collection covers many different epochs of his life. He still owns a lot of things that he is technically too old for. Hannibal has heard that no one is ever watching the keyboardist, but he might as well match, in the interest of band unity and for photos. His own pair of black leather pants is a good start, and he also finds an old mesh shirt, a spiked collar, a wonderful pair of boots that he will never ever be too old to love, and miscellaneous armbands, black leather straps, chains, and all his old skull jewelry. Looking at it strewn across his bed, Hannibal grins. When Jimmy texts him to confirm for tomorrow, Hannibal replies with _I'm looking forward to it._ and a photo of his collection.


	12. A Great Moment In Fashion History

Will always likes to take time to hang out with Alana. It's nice to be around someone who isn't some kind of artist, and her dog is friends for life with his own. She comes over at about eleven a.m. to share a nice, healthy brunch, and to walk the dogs with him in the light of day. It's nice. It's nice in a way it really wouldn't be if the nebulous, unspoken thing between them were to ever get anywhere.

"So I hear you guys are almost done already," Alana says, hurling a stick as far as she can manage for Winston, who charges after it in delirious some-part-Retriever-of-some-kind joy.

It's still weird to think that Hannibal is her goddamn piano teacher, that she used to bring him her mom's homemade cookies and play the classic exercises for him. And she wasn't even an a chubby little kid in pigtails, but a sleek, serious-faced teenage girl in silver barrettes and one of those denim-bodied jackets with the khaki sleeves. Will has seen photos from this era, and now he smiles at the thought of Hannibal's unique fashion sense running loose in the '90s.

"We are," he says. "Hell, we're so far along that Beverly and Jimmy have time to play stylist."

"You think you're going to be all right?" she asks, and Will groans. Call someone for one panic attack, hear about it the rest of your life.

"Look, Alana..." Winston interrupts him, almost thwacking Will in the knees with the stick. It's probably for the best. He takes the stick and hurls it away again, Winston bolting toward the horizon. "I'm gonna be fine," Will says in the quiet of the whole pack running off behind Winston, and for the moment, here in the sunlight, he believes it.

"That's good," Alana says, in her gentle, therapeutic way. "I worry about you when you're away, even if I do get all this peace and quiet and dog-time."

"Speaking of being all right, you let me know the second you get tired of house-sitting for me. I'm serious, I do have other options." Sure, those options are mostly responsible young relatives of Beverly's, but Alana doesn't have to know that.

"I know you do," Alana says, giving him that sad smile she always does at times like this. "Believe me, I'd tell you. I really do like the quiet, and Applesauce loves every second of it. How could I take that from her?"

Will lets himself be teased into smiling again, and a moment later gets a text from Jimmy that reads, in its entirety: _will this is a great moment in fashion history_ He shows it to Alana, who laughs, and then jumps and laughs again to get a notification of her own.

"Ooh, looks like I get a photo," she says, and shows it to Will. 

It's Hannibal, looking deeply amused. The accompanying text merely says, _Less makeup, perhaps? One cannot afford to overdo it at my age._ He has a band of black over both eyes and across the bridge of his nose, making Will think of Blade Runner and photos of Native American face paint, and his mouth is so perfectly delineated in some shade of pink that's just enough to make it stand out that Beverly must have helped him. Jimmy probably artfully tousled his hair that way, a living example of truth in stereotype. Only Hannibal's head and shoulders are visible, so all Will can really be sure of is that he's wearing a deep red mesh shirt, and that he's really cut, which is no help at all.

"I think it's just enough makeup," Alana says, typing her reply, and Will nods. He's not surprised when his phone rings, because Beverly prefers to call people when she can.

"Hey, Will!" she chirps. "What are you doing?"

"Just hanging out with Alana and the dogs. How it's going over there?"

Beverly laughs. "Awesome. Hannibal has so much great stuff that he was thinking you and Zeller should come over and see what works for you, and as your stylist, I advise you to do so."

"You may be right, even if I do hate to leave the dogs."

"Hannibal has yard space and is allowed to have living things in it. You can bring them if you pick up all the crap afterward."

"Not an unreasonable request," Will says. "I'll have to see what Alana wants to do, but I'll let you know."

Alana wants to come along, and once no one objects, Will loads up the pack and Alana leads the way to Hannibal's place, since she has been there before, if not often. It's one of those upscale neighborhoods, of course, and Will's teeth are a little on edge when they finally pull up to the house. At least it's not flashy, and set back on the lot with actual trees in the yard, not just a meaningless expanse of lawn. Zeller's van is already parked in the driveway, and Jimmy answers the door, grinning. He likes what little he has seen of Alana, and the feeling seems to be mutual. Hannibal is in the spacious kitchen fixing a pitcher of something, and Zeller is sitting in a leather armchair with a long-suffering look on his face as Beverly buckles a spiked collar around his neck.

Will just nods to everyone, and leads the dogs through to the back yard, making sure the fence is high enough and the area free of hazards before letting them roam around and smell things. As he watches them, Hannibal comes up beside him with a frosty glass in each hand.

"Is it up to standard?" he asks, pressing one glass into Will's hand.

"Yeah. Thanks." He takes a sip of what turns out to be a mojito, just right for this summery day.

"You're welcome," Hannibal says, and leans on the railing beside him, looking very casual in his face paint and mesh. There's a silver serpent bracer on his left forearm, and Will admires the fine details of the creature's vicious head.

"Beverly always likes snake jewelry," he says, and Hannibal smiles.

"I know. She is now the proud owner of a gorgeous necklace that looks much better on someone with breasts than it ever did on me."

Will smiles. "I'm sure she'll make good use of it."


	13. Makeover

Hannibal can already tell that Will needs to adjust to his new environment, so he goes back inside to greet Alana properly. It really has been too long, and he's always pleased for the chance to catch up with her. She also has some very good style suggestions for Beverly and Jimmy, who have of course been neglecting themselves. Once Hannibal is sure that everyone is comfortable and has enough to drink, he turns his attention back to the sliding glass doors just in time to see Will straighten up and step back from the railing to rejoin them. The dogs are merrily peeing on everything in the yard, and Will has no further excuse to hide from fashion.

Hannibal hasn't spent a day digging through old clothes to see who they suit since his sisters got too old for nightclubs, and he had forgotten just how much he enjoys this sort of thing. He had thought of putting the spiked collar onto Will, and it would probably suit him very well, but it looks inevitable on Zeller, elevating his usual surliness to the gorgeous menace of the classic junkyard dog. His embarrassment at being told that just adds to the charm, and Hannibal catches a look in Jimmy's eyes that reminds him of himself when Will is being particularly adorable, only softer and more wistful, something of much longer standing. This should be a very interesting tour.

For now, Hannibal gestures for Will to take a seat on the couch, which he does with a long-suffering little smile. "All right," he says, "what have we got?"

"What we've got," Beverly says, beaming, "is one of the best-preserved vintage club kid wardrobes I have ever had the privilege to witness."

"With a wonderful goth edge to the whole collection," Jimmy adds. "Put on this earring."

The earring in question is a resin fox skull, much smaller than life, and Will raises an eyebrow at it before carefully working it into the old and barely-visible piercing in his right ear. It looks natural there, fragile and feral like the wearer, and in a minute Beverly has looped what Hannibal thinks of as the raven boa around Will's neck. The raven boa, like its namesake, is black but shines in many colors, and something about it makes Will's eyes so blue they nearly glow. Combined with the skull it gives him an oddly piratical look, and Hannibal smiles, passing him an eye patch adorned with a staring silver eye.

"This is maybe an album-cover gimmick," Will says, putting it on. "At most."

"I'm not sure, Graham," Zeller says, sounding profoundly amused, "I think it suits you." He's lounging on the loveseat at his ease, as unselfconscious of the collar now as a dog would be. It's easy to see what draws Jimmy to him at a moment like this.

Will rolls his visible eye and Alana laughs. "I think that Hannibal's collection is the best thing to happen to Dog Star's wardrobe in a long time," she says, and finds a set of silver tone skull and femur beads, handing them off to Beverly before turning her attention to Jimmy, who makes a very interesting study. 

This may be Hannibal's first time in a rock band, but he knew several of them growing up, and in his experience the drummer is usually the second biggest personality in the band. Many of them compensate for that fact by being hyperactive and dressing to attract as much attention as possible, whatever the aesthetic cost. Jimmy dresses conservatively compared to his comrades, and Hannibal falls right in line with Alana's plans to change that. Beverly is happy to gang up on Jimmy, and soon they're bullying him into a sheer silver shirt that he grumbles about being too old and fat for.

"It will work on you," Beverly says, "I swear. Alana, back me up."

"Seriously, Jimmy, it's not _that_ sheer," she says, and it really isn't. 

It becomes Jimmy's age and gravity surprisingly well, as does the strange, chiton-like dress Hannibal kept even after realizing that it hung badly on his frame and also didn't fit either of his sisters. He's glad of it now, watching Jimmy as he stands up from the couch to figure out the best way to drape it over his shirtless torso. He may have some middle age spread, but it's not too dire a situation, and the pretending-not-to-be-tentative look he gives Hannibal as he comes close to assist him really is charming. Hannibal smiles down at him, making a last few adjustments.

"There," he says, and Jimmy lets out a nervous laugh.

"Uh, thanks, I guess."

"Definitely thanks," Hannibal says, giving the whole effect an approving nod. He turns away again and comes back with a skull brooch that helps to hold everything in place, physically and sartorially. "I know your stage looks are generally more conservative," Hannibal says, "but this is a bit more avant garde without being inappropriate."

"I guess old men need to stick together, huh?"

"We do," Hannibal says, even if being called 'old' nettles him a little. "I promise never to allow you to make yourself ridiculous, Jimmy."

"Thank you," Jimmy says, a thin gloss of humor over a touching level of sincerity that makes Hannibal warm to him just a little more.

Really, Jimmy and Beverly do share an excellent sense of style, and other than Jimmy's self-confidence issues, they don't really need any help. Both of them understand coloring and jewelry size and how to balance an ensemble, and it's really Will and Zeller who need active assistance. Hannibal devotes himself to beautifying them for the next hour or so, and does his best not to touch Will more than he strictly has to. Will may be delectable and possibly even receptive, but he is also very shy. Hannibal does his utmost not to terrorize him, even when he has to cup his stubbly chin in one hand and tilt that beautiful face up to line that sharp and tender mouth with the exact color of a good Pinot Noir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's apparently some weather coming, right as I finally start getting updates in order. If I vanish for days and days, it's just a power outage, and I shall return with fic. Also, happy belated holidays, guys, I hope this feels at least a bit like a present. <3


	14. Makeover II

Will does not get hard as Hannibal does his makeup, and he counts that as a victory. His heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty, but he's still fit for company. "I always feel like lipstick and facial hair at the same time is too much," he says when Hannibal stands back to survey his work, and he's proud of how normal his voice sounds.

"Not with your designer stubble, Graham," Zeller says, and Will flips him off.

"Even so, we definitely need that lipstick for future reference," Beverly says. "Right, Jimmy?"

"So right," he says, neatly folding his dress.

With both of Will's stylists arrayed against him, he knows better than to argue. And there is some fun to be had in passing around the remains of a fabulous and surreal clubbing wardrobe. Hannibal is too old for a lot of it now, but he must have been stunning in his youth. And even now he's wearing his makeup, mesh, and leather very well. Too well for Will's comfort, but that's life. He helps Beverly and Jimmy inflict style upon Will and Zeller, and Alana aids and abets them, deeply amused by each outre piece of jewelry, makeup, and apparel they find along the way.

Hannibal bears it all with grace, and nearly stops Will's heart by agreeing to model his clear plastic suit for them on some cooler day. For now, he settles for packing them each a bag after delegating Alana to cut some vegetables for lunch. Hannibal is of course the kind of man to keep shopping and gift bags, and each one is stylish in ways that range from understated to extravagant. Will's is full of imitation and real bone, feathers, deep blue things, and mock sapphires. He has to admit that it'll probably bring out his eyes.

Once that's done, the vegetables are chopped and Hannibal can make them a light, flavorful vegetable soup, presented beautifully, of course. There's a little swirl of creme fraiche in each bowl, and fucking radish roses on the side, along with rosemary crackers. Most of those present being musicians, they scarf it right down because it's free, but it actually is good. 

Will makes sure to put a glass of water between his mojitos, but he's certainly feeling the effects of the second one when he gets up to check on the dogs. It's hot out, but there's plenty of shade, and those that aren't sprawled out under the trees crawl out from the space beneath the porch. They're delighted to see Will, and if they hate to see him vanish inside again, they wait patiently for him to return with a huge metal bowl that Hannibal never uses, filled with cool water. He carefully, carefully sets it on the porch, and smiles as the whole pack comes to drink, the smaller dogs fitting themselves into the spaces of the larger ones, Querida standing between Kit's paws to lap up her share. Will smiles, settling onto a wicker chair to watch them.

With the dogs taken care of, Will's mind is free to wander, and as it so often does when he is just a little bit drunk, it heads straight for the Fuck Zone. He remembers the feeling of the blunt, slick-smooth lipstick sliding over his stretched lips, to be sure and catch the corners, and shivers. He wonders how sucking Hannibal off would go, if he'd lie back and applaud little artistic flourishes of tongue, or if he'd grab Will's hair and make him take it. 

Each approach has its appeal, as well as most of the ones in the middle, and Will bites his wine-colored lip, thinking about it. And then gets self-conscious of the lipstick on his teeth, trying to buff it off with the back of one finger. That turns his whole line of thought to Hannibal's fucking _beautiful_ fingers in his mouth, and he is fucked, he so, so fucked. He groans aloud, and then laughs, watching as his dogs roll on their backs in Hannibal's grass.

Thankfully, Beverly has brought actual makeup remover with her, and after an afternoon of hanging around drinking and watching the dogs, everyone can take their eyeliner off except for Alana. She wears a little bit of actual grownup makeup day to day, brown eyeliner and mascara, a little bit of artful shadow, and lip gloss the color of her lips. Will finds it charming and annoying by turns.

Hannibal makes sure everyone has their bag when they leave, and any personal effects they brought along, every inch the gracious host. He hasn't bothered to change out of his mesh shirt, and Will wants to bite him. As it is, he thanks him for everything, shakes his hand, and leaves.

All the way home, Alana tells piano teacher stories and laughs that someone so formal has such a theatrical wardrobe. Will can't help but smile to think of Alana and Hannibal, all those years ago.

"I had a bit of a crush on him," she says at a stoplight, "but I had a bit of crush on you, and you know how that went."

Will sighs. "I know how that went." He smiles over at her. "How are things on that front right now?"

"I'm a little busy," she says, "but not totally closed to the possibility." She pauses. "Did you ask me that because you're attracted to Hannibal?"

"Probably," Will admits, pulling ahead as the light changes. "How obvious am I?"

"It's not so bad," Alana says, "I just know the signs."

After they get home and Will can see Alana off, he sits there with his dogs and his notebook and wonders what the fuck he's going to do. On tour he'll be changing around Hannibal, possibly sharing hotel rooms with him... this is going to be one long wet nightmare. He sits there on the couch, pen still as he contemplates it. He jumps and makes a straggling, pointless line when his phone rings. He picks it up, and tenses all over to see that Jack is calling. Jack is a friend, but when he calls late, it's always about some sudden change to the itinerary, or some actual emergency. Nothing easy to deal with.

At least it's the former this time, and Will actually smiles when Jack tells him that since they're nearly done with the album, they were thinking of cutting an alternate version of 'Panthalassa,' now that they have someone competent on synth.


	15. Panthalassa

Most of Panthalassa can be left exactly as it is, even if it's a bit too slick for Hannibal's taste, so there's no real reason for anyone else to show up, but they do anyway. They listen to his playing and argue about how much theremin he should add. It's irritating and homey at the same time, and Beverly has more Korean food to share, along with some macaroni and cheese.

"I know that whatever I have, you guys will eat it," she says, during a break in the work, and Hannibal chuckles, remembering how his own enormous lunches would vanish at school, shared with half the class.

"Still think we should re-cut the strings," Zeller mutters around a mouthful of barbecued beef. He does have a point, since as it stands, Panthalassa is mostly an exercise in trying not to humiliate Krendler.

"Maybe so," Beverly says, "but do we have the time?"

"Probably not," Will drawls, "since if you're going to do that, I'll want to put down a new vocal track."

In the end, Crawford just takes some aspirin and tells them that they can stay as late as they want, but that they're not fucking with this after tomorrow. Hannibal does his best not to laugh, and puts down the rest of his requirement while the others prepare to make a whole new cut. There's a kind of gleeful madness to the idea that catches at Hannibal's imagination. It's more of that intoxicating synthesis, the way Dog Star moves together like a flock of starlings.

Hannibal is not particularly well-versed in rock, but he knows what he likes, and Panthalassa is a lot of it. Dancing drums and a bass line to match, with Beverly's violin high and wild overhead, and Will's voice irresistible. Panthalassa is an exuberant song, an inclusive dance jam about human unity and the need for it in the face of all the world's divisive bullshit. Hannibal isn't surprised that it's Dog Star's only track to crack the top forty, so far. It's clean and upbeat without being musically void or losing Dog Star's unique voice, and the ocarina just makes it addictive. Jimmy piped the little riff before they began, and now it loops while they play the rest of the song. It's so much more complex this way, so much better. Krendler really was holding Dog Star back.

They play Panthalassa again and again, improvising and riffing on each other's changes. It gets late, and everyone sort of slowly comes apart, Jimmy shedding two out of three shirts while Zeller emerges from his hooded sweatshirt for the first time all night, and even Hannibal rolling up his sleeves and tugging his tie down to half-mast. Beverly clips her hair into a pile on top of her head, the whole thing shaped like a spider plant, and Will strips down to a grease-stained undershirt that shouldn't be quite so charming, his voice getting husky and intimate with fatigue. He keeps the beat in a slight, apparently unconscious sway of his hips, and Hannibal is very glad to have synthesizer keys to distract his hands from the extremely tactile fantasy of grabbing on and pulling back.

A break for late-night Thai delivery is more than welcome. Even if Will insists on lounging on the couch with all the casual elegance of a feral cat, nibbling on morsels of pra ram chicken is far less dangerous to Hannibal's sanity than his singing. He calls Alana while the rest of the band is still eating, checking in on his dogs like a responsible parent. He laughs at something she says, and Hannibal isn't sure if he wants to paint him or bite him more. 

Things are reaching a truly dire level, and that's why Hannibal calls Bedelia when he gets home, even though it's about three o'clock in the morning. He lets it ring twice and is about to hang up when the line opens and her voice is in his ear. "You are very lucky that my insomnia is acting up, Hannibal," she says, and he smiles.

"I know. Pardon my unpardonable rudeness, but I'm afraid that I might be in love." He wanders into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of wine, glad to have some of last night's excellent red left over. He can hear Bedelia doing the same, and smiles.

"You always were as susceptible as your high standards will allow," she says. "Who is it this time?"

"One of my current colleagues, naturally."

"The front man?" she murmurs, and Hannibal laughs.

"How well you know me."

"There's a certain wiry, tense type of man that you seem to enjoy very much, Hannibal, and Will Graham is a perfect example of it."

"Don't forget the beautiful eyes," Hannibal says. "Never discount the effect of beautiful eyes."

"Of course not, Hannibal," she says, and there's a near-silence as she sips her wine. "How are you fitting into the group?"

"That's always hard for the subject to gauge," Hannibal says, "but I am not actively offensive and am a much better musician than the man I'm replacing."

"It must count for something," Bedelia agrees. "When did the fascination start?"

"That's hard to be sure of," he says, "but it began very early." 

After all, he had seen Will's beauty the first time he had stumbled upon the band, but beauty on its own isn't enough. It's something about his determined efforts to not be beautiful, his wariness and his paradoxical introversion. And of course, the music and its lyrics, a whole skull full of beauty to go with everything on the surface. His does his best to convey this to Bedelia without sounding like he wants to eat Will raw, but he isn't sure how well it works.

"Am I going to have to follow Dog Star's tour to make sure that the lead singer isn't eaten by the keyboardist?"

"...I don't like to ask you to exert yourself, Bedelia," he says, "and I do like to think that I can conduct myself like a well-adjusted adult."


	16. Get On The Damn Bus

Every time Dog Star goes on tour, Will's biggest worry is his own precious dogs. Compared to making sure that they'll be comfortable and safe while he's gone, his own packing and arrangements are nothing, just two bags. Real clothes and toiletries in one, stage gear in the other, which is stuffed to the corners now that Hannibal's gifts are crammed in with what he already had. He spends as much time as he can just being with the dogs. They know what's up, of course, and all gather sorrowfully by the door in the morning.

"I know, guys," he says softly, and takes a moment to pet everyone, his bags already on the porch. "Alana will take good care of you," he tells them, and they offer a few half-hearted wags.

Outside, Alana is waiting for him, her car loaded nearly to its limits with Beverly, Applesauce, and all the baggage attendant on two humans and a dog, one packed for a tour and the other to house-sit for a while. Will stuffs his things into what space remains in the trunk, and then crams himself into the back seat beside Applesauce, who is of course delighted to see him. He grins, and scratches her behind the ears, crooning a soft greeting before he says anything to either of his human friends. Beverly laughs at him, but not unkindly.

"Good morning to you too, Graham. You ready to spend six hours on the road before we get to rock?"

"You know it," Will says, and she laughs again as Alana pulls out of the driveway.

Will's stage fright always begins right around deciding to tour in the first place, and tends to build and dissipate in long, rolling waves. He's tense now, but it will be worse later, and he centers himself by petting Applesauce, who always enjoys time with Uncle Will. Beverly twists around to watch them, and smiles sadly.

"We need to get you a little purse-sized therapy dog," she says, and Will just sighs, gazing deep into Applesauce's eyes.

"Probably," he says.

Living some of the furthest from the studio, Will usually arrives to find the rest of the band already cramming things onto the bus and doing their best to get the roadies to function. It's always too much to deal with at any time of the day, let alone first thing in the morning. Will heaves his things out of Alana's trunk, and manages a non-surly farewell to her and to Applesauce.

Beverly chuckles at Alana drives away. "Jesus, Graham, you look so fucking forlorn. You know we do have good times here at Camp Granada, right?"

He snorts. "Yeah, I guess we do. But not right off."

At least Zeller is on the same level, surly with extra exasperation on the side. They do have some new crew, and Zeller does have a lot of heavy shit in his van. Jimmy hovers beside him with two cups of coffee, serving his function as Spiritual Adviser. Jack is trying to fuss over Bella and talk to a guy from the label at the same time, and Hannibal is seated on a neat pile of luggage, wearing a crisp linen suit and sipping from a travel mug, looking damnably amused. Since Will has the smallest amount of physical _stuff_ to worry about, he makes his way over to Hannibal, sitting down cross-legged on the concrete. 

Hannibal smiles down at him. "Good morning, Will."

"Morning," Will grunts, and Hannibal makes a small noise of amusement. "Got your theremin in order?"

"It actually packs up very easily for travel," he says, and takes another long sip of his coffee. "I think everything will be on the bus within the next fifteen minutes, barring exceptional incompetence."

"Never bar that," Will mutters, but Hannibal turns out to be right. And also able to just fucking sit here quietly, and Will is almost embarrassingly grateful for that, as Beverly chirps and chatters like a goddamn bird as she swoops around and helps to keep Zeller from dropping dead of apoplexy, and gently chides Jimmy for not bringing her any coffee.

"You don't need it," he tells her, and she just laughs. Beverly is always gorgeous, but she is particularly so in the morning sun, and Will wonders yet again how he ended up as the main sex symbol of this band, frontman status be damned.

At least some of the pre-tour anxiety is relieved by actually getting fucking started. A sleeper bus is not Will's favorite place, but it could be worse. And today he has the pleasure of watching Hannibal make his dainty and deliberate way down the aisle, like a cat exploring a new environment. Jimmy lets him know how storage generally works, and Will finds his usual place in one of the back corners, curling up and watching as the others dispose themselves around the interior. At least this particular bus isn't a claustrophobic hellhole, and Will relaxes a little, profoundly grateful when the driver joins them at last. He's a small, quiet man, a blessed oasis of non-jangliness, and he pulls smoothly out of the parking lot.

As usual, Jack is going to spend most of this trip riding separately. Apparently it makes the insurance cheaper, and of course he wants to stay with Bella. The bond between them really is touching, and Will is as happy for them as he can manage on the first morning of a tour. Hannibal and Beverly are disgustingly cheerful, of course, but Zeller is glowering over his coffee and Jimmy is muttering quietly to himself about being ancient and near death. Will doesn't mind having like-minded company, and at least Hannibal and Beverly have the decency to keep it down, whatever the hell they're talking about.

"Fffuuuck," Will mutters after about twenty miles, "I don't know if I can do this."

Zeller rolls his eyes. "You say that every fucking time, and here we are." Jimmy just tips a little more whiskey into his coffee and puts on his sunglasses on without a word. 

Will tips his head back against the seat and imagines every detail of standing in a peaceful stream, fishing. He actually dozes off in the sun, and jolts awake to find Hannibal sitting beside him, a paper plate balanced on his lap. Will blinks a few times and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, unsure where or when he is.

"Good morning," Hannibal says. "Snack?"

"Uh... yeah, sure." Will struggles to sit up straight, feeling a little clammy around the collar and grimacing with it. "Whatcha got?"

"Rosemary crackers, homemade cream cheese, and caviar."

"...How are you even real?" Will mumbles, and then thanks him, accepting a loaded cracker. It's so delicious that it's irritating, and Will devours the entire thing.

"A good question for anyone, Will," Hannibal says, handing him another cracker and a bottle of water.

"You bring enough for the driver?" Will asks, halfway through the third one.

"Of course," Hannibal says. "That's only courtesy."


	17. Riding However Many Hours

Hannibal has traveled with the symphony, but that was always by plane, cramped and full of horrible recirculated air. This may be more time-consuming, but it is far more pleasant. He’ll be tired of it eventually, but for now there’s a great deal of amusement in watching the country go by and in trading his most anti-religious jokes with Jimmy, who is often too much but today has a wonderful, self-contained chipperness that Hannibal appreciates. Beverly is also a morning person, but she’s deeply engaged with her phone, furiously texting various members of her large extended family.

Zeller is actually in his bunk, and Will is staring out the window in either deep thought or a shallow dissociative state, it's hard to tell from here. Either way he's too gorgeous not to sketch. Jimmy is as impressed as most people are with Hannibal's draftsmanship, but he also has enough sense to let an artist work, and doesn't make any real comments or suggestions beyond that first acknowledgment of Hannibal's skill. After the first study of Will, Hannibal makes one of Beverly, both to divert suspicion and for the joy of it. By the time he's halfway through the second one, Beverly has stopped texting to answer a call in exasperated Korean. Hannibal can't help but smile, always full of fond amusement to see his fellow polyglots in action, and Jimmy chuckles.

"That's a cousin, I'm pretty sure. She doesn't have the heart to take that tone with Grandma, no matter how much she fusses."

"It's good to be rich in family," Hannibal says, starting a quick sketch of Jimmy now that he's distracted.

"I don't know if I'd call it-- oh, I see," he says, softer and more serious.

"Indeed," Hannibal says, putting in just enough shading to show the truth of the dark circles under Jimmy's eyes without being insulting, "though I am far from destitute."

"That's good," he says, and then "hey!" when he finally notices what Hannibal is working on.

Hannibal chuckles, glancing up at him. "I believe in democracy," he says, and Jimmy laughs.

"You know, Jack would probably really like a good drawing of Bella. If you felt like it, I mean."

"I very well might," Hannibal says. "She is a fascinating subject."

"Are you kids making art over there?" Beverly asks, tucking her phone away and crossing the aisle to join them.

"Hannibal is, I'm just being one of those annoying people who watches," Jimmy says, and Beverly offers to help. 

The two of them are almost exactly like children, and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Once Hannibal has drawn enough from the environment, he's willing to solicit prompts from children or childlike adults. This is how he ends up drawing a tree that grows kittens, and first contact with sapient plants before he has to stop because he can feel motion sickness creeping up on him.

Hannibal actually does feel more comfortable at a cooler temperature, and Will is sitting right by an air-conditioning vent, but that's just an excuse. He turns from the window when Hannibal sits down beside him, and Hannibal smiles. It takes Will a moment to remember to smile back, and it's tight and false.

"Oh, hey," he says, and then sits up straighter and makes what is obviously a conscious effort to be more polite and welcoming. "Sorry, I'm not actually awake yet. How are you?"

"Dangerously close to carsick," he says, "but being by the vent is helping." He shrugs out of his jacket as he speaks, and the way Will watches him makes it clear that whatever is bothering him, it isn't Hannibal's proximity. "Are you all right?" he asks, and Will grimaces, turning back to the window.

"Yeah," he mutters. "It's just... I dunno, it's like what I hear about childbirth, that the first one is the hardest. First gig of every tour fucks me right up."

Hannibal leans back in the seat, closing his eyes. "I see. It makes a certain amount of sense."

"Why, because I'm so obviously an artist in torment?" Will mutters, self-deprecating with a cruel edge not really hidden by humor.

"Because you're a very sensitive person," Hannibal says, watching the sunlight through his eyelids. "And a courageous one. Each performance is a battle that you win against your fear."

"...I hadn't thought of it like that."

Hannibal smiles. "And that is why it's good to talk about these things, Will."

Will has nothing to say after that, but his silence has a slightly more restful quality that Hannibal appreciates. The miles roll by, and Zeller comes shuffling out from the back, scrubbing at his face with one hand and demanding to know the time. Beverly provides it while Jimmy hands him a Redbull. Hannibal can't help a shudder at the faint waft of its powdery chemical-fruit miasma that comes when Zeller opens the can, and Will chuckles.

"We're probably gonna outrage your sensibilities a lot, Hannibal. Sorry."

Hannibal laughs. "My artistic sensibilities are the ones that really matter, Will, and so far Dog Star has done nothing to offend them."

Even so, at the first stop, Hannibal can only shake his head at the available food options and make sure that his companions are very much aware that he is willing to share his rosemary crackers, hard salami, aged Manchego, and various dried fruits. In a backhanded way he's pleased that they're too polite to really avail themselves of it just yet, but it's terrible to watch his bandmates sharing their various horrible convenience foods as the bus rumbles out of the parking lot. At least Peter has the sense to accept some real food. Hannibal is pleased to sit up at the front with him and listen to his stories about the horses he grew up with, and delighted to give him his first taste of caviar.

"We didn't actually have any money or anything," he says in his soft almost-lisp, after thanking Hannibal again for his second cracker, "but we were always real country, and horses were just part of the landscape. I miss 'em, but it's just not practical."


	18. Okay, It's Gig Time: What T-Shirt Am I Gonna Wear?

Will spends most of the day zoned out, and he's glad that Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. The rest of Dog Star is used to him dosing with his own fucked up brain or whatever it is he does when he ends up standing in his mental stream for hours at a time. Krendler used to try to balance things on him, always annoyed at being thwarted by Will's reflexive twitch, and it's so nice to be left alone. He won't need this so much later, but sometimes it feels like he needs to transform at the start of every tour, to become someone who can actually tolerate it.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs from close beside him, and Will shudders and blinks, suddenly consciously aware that the sun is lowering.

"Uh... hi," he mutters, rubbing at his stubble with one hand. "When are we?"

"About three hours out from our destination," Hannibal says, handing Will a bottle of water. "Beverly told me to invite you to look over the set list with us."

"I bet she didn't say it like that," Will says, and Hannibal smiles.

"She did not," he agrees, and Will follows him to where the others are gathered around Beverly, who is waiting with pencil in hand for Will to poke at the list the way he always does.

"There you are!" she calls, and moves over so Will can sit by her, comforted by her familiar scent and the steadiness of her personal energy. He doesn't talk about it much, but people sort of vibrate on different frequencies for him, and Beverly's is very soothing. "We were thinking of opening with Black Tambourine and throwing Rock And Roll Fantasy in toward the end, but what do you think?"

Starting with a cover is always better than getting immediately into his own stuff, it gives him a moment to breathe, and Dog Star's version of Rock And Roll Fantasy is, just like the original, good for when the crowd is already warmed up. Somehow Will isn't surprised to find that Hannibal has Views about which songs go together, but it doesn't fuck up the rhythm for him to insist that Monster goes after Eyes On Me and not before.

Beyond coming up with a decent list, they need to make sure that Hannibal is up on it, though he's a quick study and has apparently been listening to their discography on his off time. He has a keyboard emulator on his laptop that lets him run through anything he's hazy on, and Will does his best not to show the stupid warm glow it's giving him to hear these songs fucking played right. Hannibal catches his eye for a moment and actually winks at him, and Will has no choice but to flee back to his seat, staring out the window again as Hannibal's playing fills the air.

It used to worry Will, how completely he can check out at times like this, but by now he's used to it. The next time he lets reality filter back in, they're pulling up to their venue. It'll be a baptism of fire for Hannibal, one of those mud-covered outdoor festivals full of blissed-out kids, assholes, and drunks. It's not even small enough to be homey, unlike Altar Rock, which Will looks forward to every year.

To his credit, Hannibal only raises his eyebrows a little at the roiling, mud and body paint covered crowd, and even compliments the stage. For the available budget the stage is quite good. The roof actually keeps rain off, unless it blows in sideways. That seems unlikely, this time. What his father would call a peach of a day is fading into the kind of warm summer night that was meant for an outdoor show, and some of the tension goes out of Will's shoulders.

"Feeling a little better?" Hannibal murmurs, appearing at his elbow and making him jump. Will gives him a side-eye that he ignores with feline assurance.

"Yeah, actually," Will says, because he is. Slightly. "Couple years ago it hailed," he adds, mostly to say something. Hannibal shudders delicately, and Will has to laugh.

Once the band has given the situation a once-over, Jack supervises the roadies with his usual glowering menace while the entire bus becomes a dressing room. As the only girl, Beverly gets her own little curtained-off bit, while the rest of them share space as best they can. There are a few opening acts before their set, but Dog Star is a headliner and it's important to look fabulous without being too stupid about it, and always at moments like this, Will feels his age and ludicrousness acutely. He has read enough of his own press to know that he is generally considered to have sex appeal, but that only makes him more nervous. He risks a glance over at Hannibal, who is buttoning his leather pants, the same deep red mesh shirt from before draped over the seat beside him. The lithe muscles of his back are a work of art, and Will does his best not to stare. He tears himself away to glower down at his jumbled pile of gig wear.

"Will," Zeller says, muffled by the BEWARE OF DOG t-shirt he's pulling down over his head, "just put on one thing Hannibal gave you and whatever else Beverly says when you ask her."

"Is that your plan?" Will asks, unbuttoning his plaid flannel.

"You know it," Zeller says, smoothing the front of his shirt and then clipping the spiked collar around his neck. It's a good look, and Will feels a kind of pull toward trying to look unapproachable. So he shrugs on his black biker jacket open over nothing, slithers into the tight, faded jeans that Jimmy attacked with a razor a few years back, and laces up his very stompiest boots. He throws the feather boa Hannibal gave him around his neck and heads to the back of the bus.

"Beverly?" he calls, approaching her little bower. She emerges in a sheer black shirt over a bright orange bra and a pair of superhero boxers, and grins at him.

"All you need is makeup," she says. "Maybe that fox skull earring, if you can find it."

"Yes, ma'am," Will says, only half joking.

"Before you go, schoolgirl skirt and heels, or shorts and boots?"

"Boots, whatever else you do," Will says, and goes to look for his earring.


	19. Get Out There And Make Some Noise

Hannibal has a great deal of experience in applying makeup for maximum effect, and Dog Star's audience aren't the only ones with body paint. He does not merely want an excuse to touch Will when he suggests a dripping red handprint over his heart, but he cannot deny his pleasure when Will says, "sure, why not?" and doesn't even start to look around for anyone else to do it. Hannibal coats his palm with the red paint, thinning it until he can be sure that it will drip, and then presses it to the center of Will's chest. Droplets of paint roll down and stop exactly where they should, the longest just an inch from the waistband of Will's jeans. The effect is very nearly obscene, and Hannibal has seldom been so proud of his work. 

"Thanks," Will mutters, avoiding eye contact as he sits still to let the paint dry, even though his body is almost vibrating with tension.

"You are very welcome," Hannibal tells him, turning to his mirror as much to give Will a break as to apply eyeliner. 

Thick and black seems to be the order of the day, and Hannibal adds a little silver for punctuation, looking up as Beverly comes out to join them. Her own eye makeup is an Egyptian-inspired work of art, and the French lace glowing through the black is delightful. Her little pleated skirt is an orange plaid, and torn fishnets and boots about as heavy as Will's make the perfect finish. The shades of orange match so well that Hannibal strips off his wine-red shirt and goes looking for something that doesn't clash. He wouldn't want to put Beverly out by making her change, even if her own ensemble wasn't so much better.

"You hear the man, Jimmy?" Beverly calls, after Hannibal explains his reasoning, and Jimmy sits up from his last-minute rest, revealing a black button-down.

"I've gone monochromatic," he says, "I'll be fine."

"Stop that at once," she says, and Hannibal hands her a large-figured orange and red tie from his regular luggage before turning back to his show bag. 

She thanks him and throws the tie to Jimmy, who sighs and knots it around his neck as Hannibal pulls out the tailed black and orange waistcoat that he wore three Halloweens ago, to be the ringmaster of an evil circus. It seems appropriate now, and in some flight of fancy he had even packed the tophat that goes with it. He taps socks and other things out of the crown and then sets the hat on his head, tipping it slightly over one eye and then shrugging into the waistcoat and carefully fastening each skull-shaped button.

Zeller pokes his head back into the bus. "You girls done primping?" he asks, and then "What the hell happened to you?" before anyone can answer, staring at Hannibal.

Hannibal just laughs, and Beverly snickers helplessly. "It's called _fashion_ , Zeller. Look it up," she says when she can speak again, and Zeller rolls his eyes. He just has time to come in and down a bottle of water before Bella comes to fetch them, which is a nice change from Jack with his carved-in scowl lines.

"You're on in five," she says, "and I'll guard the bus if Peter isn't back."

They all thank her and make their way out. The walk to the stage feels strangely exposed to Hannibal, used to the safety of indoor situations. At least it's properly dark now, and the sky is full of stars. The band ahead of them is just finishing their set, the last notes of something folk-rock and forgettable fading as they approach. They wait for the other group to make its exit and for their own roadies to set up and then finally climb onto the darkened stage to take their places, marked by glow-in-the-dark tape. Hannibal isn't sure how a man as nervous as Will stands this. He takes his seat behind the keyboard, the theremin at his side, and waits. Will goes to the microphone stand and takes a deep breath, poised with one hand on the mic and his head bowed.

And then the lights come up in one apocalyptic flash, and Zeller starts the bass line for Black Tambourine. Will is almost inert, head still bowed as he just barely starts to sway. Dog Star's version of this song has a more gradual build, Zeller alone for a little while before Jimmy picks it up on the drums, tight and controlled. Beverly's guitar is almost a shock, coming in as quiet rhythm and repeated, measured licks. And then it's Hannibal's turn, adding the high, ghostly notes of a Dog Star original harmony. By the time they rest of them are in, Will's sway is more purposeful, shoulders rolling as he finally lifts his head, the mic intimate, almost in his mouth, the way he likes it.

When Will sings about black hearts in effigy, a song that was hated, and being dressed in rag and bones, it's completely devoid of the almost monotonous cool of the original. Will sounds like some wild seer, a person who has been to the edge and come back with incommunicable knowledge. There's a frightened crackle to his whole presence, and Hannibal has the impression of a man burning himself alive for art. All he can do is try to match it.

After their first song they get into Will's own lyrics, and Hannibal delights in his easy mesh with Dog Star as a live act. They improvise and so does he, and by the time they get to Monster Will has dropped his jacket to the stage, the ends of the boa flying through the air with each restless toss of his head. He's covered in sweat, but when he turns his back to the audience in the course of Beverly's extended solo on Monster, Hannibal can see that the bleeding handprint is still in place, and he trembles, glad that he's not on theremin right now.


	20. Festival

Will knows it's a good show when he can just roll into the headspace he needs to occupy to successfully perform Eyes On Me. He's a professional, he can always do it, but to do it with real ease is harder. He definitely can't open with it, but it belongs somewhere in the first gig, as a sort of emotional barometer. Tonight it's easier than easy, finding that spot where he can posture like a sex god and not feel ridiculous. 

Despite sharing a title with a Final Fantasy nerd anthem (Jimmy had brought this up, but it was too late, the song wouldn't answer to any other name) Eyes On Me is the kind of fast and dirty sex jam that actually gets some radio play because the FCC doesn't even get half of it. Will purrs the lyrics, hands caressing the mic in the way he really can't help on songs like this. He got too hot for his jacket a while ago, letting it drop to the stage, and now he doesn't even feel a flicker of embarrassment over his dancing during the bridge. Freddie Lounds once wrote that he dances _like a broken doll that has come back for revenge. And maybe some sweaty make-up sex._ That had left him too embarrassed to really do it for a few weeks, until Beverly had gotten him wasted and taken him to a club where everyone was too fucked up to judge. 

Now he's willing to grind his hips and toss the boa around, because so what if it's faggy, he never said he was straight. The band seems to pick up on how defiant he actually feels, and he's pleased to hear Hannibal rising to improvise with the others. There had been hints of it in the studio, but the man's performance history is almost entirely symphonic, and Will might not know everything about that but he knows that jamming like this isn't allowed. There was always a risk of his training taking over and freezing him live, and Will is somewhere near ecstatic that it hasn't.

After Eyes On Me they can either take it down a notch or stay loud. Will feels no inclination whatsoever to take it down a notch. Rock And Roll Fantasy is good for times like this. The crowd was already dancing, but they do come in on the chorus, and Will is feeling so friendly toward them that when some kid yells for Panthalassa, he asks the others if they feel like actually doing it. They're willing, and the song is so beautiful with Hannibal on it that Will doesn't even dare look at him.

By the time the show is over, Will has put his jacket back on and three pairs of underwear have been hurled at the stage: a filmy pink thong, a pair of full-cut blue panties, and a pair of grey boxer-briefs like what Will so often wears, himself. These go into the Things Thrown At The Stage box, Beverly finding an empty and scribbling its title on one side.

"Is this simply a method of keeping score?" Hannibal asks, top hat tipped just so over his left eye, his vest already off and draped neatly over the couch.

"Pretty much, yeah," Beverly says, setting the box down and stretching her arms over her head before hauling off her sheer shirt. Will has worn a few of them in his time, and knows that they hold sweat and stink far better than anything so insubstantial should be able to.

"Good, because I can imagine few things less sanitary."

"I still don't know whose fucking idea that was," Zeller says, coming out of the back shirtless and disgruntled, carrying two packs of wet wipes and a bottle of whiskey. "I mean, it's one thing if you know the person, but who the fuck wants sweaty congealed stranger underwear?"

"You really do have a gift for expression, Zeller," Jimmy says, making a face as he digs around for shot glasses.

"You're welcome," Zeller says, tossing one pack of wipes to Beverly, who catches them and disappears into the back, yelling for them not to do any shots without her.

"...How long until we can make use of shore power?" Hannibal asks. He had been visibly chagrined to hear about the risk of tripping breakers in the performance space, and now Will tries not to snicker.

"Not until Water Damage finishes their set," Zeller says, setting the whiskey down beside Jimmy and cracking open his remaining package of wipes. He takes a handful and then says, "Catch," tossing them to Hannibal. He does, with his usual feline grace. 

Will doesn't actually care much, in his current mood, but he knows that the sweat drying on his skin will feel horrible later, to say nothing of the paint on his chest, so he takes the package when Hannibal offers it. They're mostly done swabbing themselves down when Beverly comes back, makeup mostly gone and concert clothing swapped for an enormous t-shirt and a pair of boxers. The shirt is their own merch, but Beverly insists that it's too comfortable to trade for anything less lame and that no one else sees it anyway.

Now a shirtless heathen like the rest of them, borrowed tie still draped around his neck, Jimmy lines up the glasses and pours everyone a more-than-regulation shot. "If the Queen of the May will grace us with her presence?" he asks, and Beverly flips him off, picking up the first glass. They all follow suit and then immediately go for a second round, because everyone wants to get fucked up after a gig. Apparently the tradition even prevails with the symphony crowd, though Hannibal says that they do it more slowly, and with wine.

The crew is trying to sleep, so Dog Star has to get drunk quietly, but that's nothing they haven't done before. Will expects to be more tired by his third drink, but he's still wide awake, humming with energy. The others are the same, and soon Zeller is putting on real clothes again to go wander the festival. Jimmy and Beverly join him, and Will is left alone with the whiskey, Hannibal, and the last few songs of Water Damage's set.


	21. Rain On The Roof

Hannibal does not generally drink whiskey, but has to admit that it is a perfectly valid way to escape sobriety. When he says so, Will laughs and pours them each another shot.

"My personal favorite," he says, and then pauses for a moment, glass suspended halfway to his mouth. "Well, grass is all right, and acid can be fun."

Hannibal is filled with the urge to draw him as he is now, wild-haired and shirtless on the couch knocking back amber liquor. Instead, he picks up his own glass and says, "I prefer psilocybin."

Will shifts from sitting to sprawling along the couch, stretching his lean body like a cat. "Is that the magic part of magic mushrooms?" he drawls.

"The very same," Hannibal says, and takes his shot. He prefers better whiskey when he drinks it, but he has also had far worse and knows when to be grateful. The mellow burn of it goes well against the cool of a summer night that is turning rainy, mercifully just in time for Water Damage to avoid living up to their name. Hannibal sighs and rubs a hand over his chest, trying to dissipate the humid feeling on his skin. "It's a very serious-minded drug, but joyous."

"Sounds like you and Jimmy have something in common. It's easy for me to go too deep with that shit."

"You seem to have a very limpid and permeable mind," Hannibal agrees, and Will chuckles.

"Does permeable mean crazy, in this context?" Will asks.

"Crazy is so entirely relative as to be useless, Will. Those who claim to be completely sane are the maddest of all."

"You know," Will says, pouring himself another shot but sipping this one slowly, "I've been trying to figure out if you're full of shit or actually wise."

"And your conclusion?" Hannibal asks. It's a terrible sign that Will's rudeness is sort of endearing, but he can't really worry about it now.

"Little bit of both," Will says, and Hannibal makes a quiet noise of amusement.

"It certainly sounds plausible," he says, and then gets up to investigate the kitchenette. 

They can use shore power now, and Hannibal does the best he can to prepare real food. There isn't much to work with, but soon he has figured out an acceptable open sandwich. He serves Will the first one, and is just melting the cheese on more when the rest of Dog Star comes staggering home at last. Zeller holds the door for Beverly and for Jimmy, who come in looking a lot like happy, wet dogs. The bright eyes and the smiles are the same, and Hannibal raises an eyebrow as Jimmy sets a carefully-shielded basket of fries next to the sandwiches.

"I was given to understand that this would be an equitable and drug-sharing enterprise," he murmurs, and Beverly laughs, falling onto the sofa beside Will.

"We're only drunk, mother dear," Beverly coos, "but we do have some molly for later."

Hannibal can only begin to imagine Will on MDMA, and is pleased to see that he doesn't immediately shoot the idea down. "As long as it's fairly divided, young lady," Hannibal tells her, and she collapses into giggles again.

It starts to rain harder, and it's soothing to have everyone gathered in this little sanctuary of warmth and dryness, changing out of wet clothes and waiting to be fed. It reminds Hannibal of looking after Mischa, and he can't help a contented smile as he curls up on the other side of Will.

"You look so happy that it's really cute," Beverly tells him, filter completely dissolved in alcohol.

Hannibal's own filter must be at least half gone, because he says, "I had to take care of my younger sister for a while, when we were small." There's just a listening silence and the sound of rain on the roof, and Hannibal sighs. "I didn't want us separated after our parents were killed, so I took her and ran." He chuckles. "There ended up being a stand-off with police."

"So you were the hardest kid in fourth grade?" Zeller asks, and Hannibal laughs.

"Perhaps. In the end they called our uncle to come tell us that he could keep us together, so the whole thing was resolved without bloodshed."

"I just love happy endings," Jimmy sighs, sounding only about twenty-five percent sarcastic.

"And I just love seeing everyone well-fed," Hannibal says, gently pushing the plate toward Jimmy and Zeller.

After the sandwiches are gone, it's about three am and time to shuffle off to bed. Jimmy washes the dishes on the grounds that his mother raised him right, and soon Hannibal is crawling into his bunk, giving Zeller a tolerant smile as he stares at Hannibal's pajamas from across the aisle.

"Seriously?"

"They're very comfortable," Hannibal says, "and nudity seemed like a bit of a presumption."

"Just wait until Will has a nightmare. Or a wet dream."

"It was not a wet dream!" Will yelps, in a tone that makes it clear that it was, or nearly so. Hannibal can't help but be intrigued.

"Better a sex dream than whatever the fuck was going on when you were mumbling about a magic clown horse!" Beverly yells from the back of the bus, and Jimmy laughs, with a guilty look forward. Peter has been asleep up front for a while, and is apparently still asleep, not banging on the partition or signaling irritation in any other way.

"Guys can we please not piss off the driver on the first day?" Will mutters, and yawns.

"I don't know," Hannibal murmurs, "can we refrain from having wet dreams about magic clown horses?"

Everyone laughs as quietly as they can. "Jeez, you've got a dirty mind," Zeller says, yawning. "He was just teaching me to ride a unicycle."

"And what would Freud have made of that, I wonder," Hannibal says, and Will snorts.

"When I go off to have an ill-advised solo career, Phallic Unicycle will be my first single," he says, and Jimmy snickers.

"Can I design the cover art?" he asks.

"Of course," Will says, and yawns again.

Everyone subsides, and Hannibal lies on his back, listening to the slow breathing of his bandmates and the rain on the roof. He spares a thought for the mud-coated children out there, trying to make tents liveable, and shudders. They're probably sleeping two to a bag, and on the edge of sleep he has to admit to himself that being crammed in with Will might be worth it.


	22. The Most Important Meal Of The Day

All that talk about insane dreams right before bed may have been a bad idea. Will has this thought in a muddled kind of way in the space between skimming up from the classic where he's being chased down a narrowing hallway by something that combines features of Ed Asner and the Alien queen, and sliding down into something else entirely. The corridor is one of many of Will's recurring stress dreams, and he won't remember it when he wakes up for real. For now, he is engrossed in scaling a tower, which is much better than a corridor. 

There's a gorgeous view from up here, and as he spiders his way from handhold to handhold, some of them barely there, Will has never been less afraid of falling in his life. The sun is warm on his back and there's just enough of a breeze to keep him from getting hot as he hauls himself up the side of the tower. It's dream-climbing, so he feels like he could go forever, but the sense of real effort is still there. He's glad to see a window coming up ahead, and he hauls himself up and into it, eyes dazzled with the cloudless sky outside, the sky of a thousand summer days as seen through a lens smeared into supernatural clarity with a fistful of nostalgia.

Sitting on the floor of a vast and opulent library, Will rubs his eyes and looks around, the window a tiny floor-level door into another world. Walking deeper into the library there is a garden, and in the garden there is a serpent. He has silver scales and tells Will something important before Zeller is shaking him awake and he forgets a good 75% percent of it.

"You're missing breakfast," Zeller says, and shoves a paper plate into Will's hands. 

Will sits on the edge of his bunk and stares down at it for a moment before the blaze of impossible, bleeding red resolves itself into fresh strawberries. They're neatly hulled and set on their cut ends on a bed of greens, beside crackers and a wedge of brie. Will stares down at this abundance, the bus gently swaying as the they cover the miles to their next gig.

"The fuck?" he croaks, and Zeller shrugs.

"We stopped for gas and there was a produce stand within an easy walk," he says. "I have no idea what kind of foodie queen we've picked up, but I'm grateful."

Will shares this gratitude, and after devouring everything on his plate and kicking his way into last night's pants, he goes forward to find Hannibal. The unfiltered sunlight through the windows is blinding, and Will hisses and squints even though he's not hungover. He shades his eyes with one hand and after another moment he can make out Hannibal, Beverly, and Jimmy, all engaged in what Will dimly realizes is a game of Botticelli, because Jimmy is the kind of asshole to suggest it on long drives and Hannibal is either too polite to defend himself or the same kind of asshole.

Hannibal is the one with line of sight on the door, and he smiles. "Good morning, Will."

"Thanks for breakfast," Will says, sounding hoarse and less sincere than he means to. He shuffles past them to throw the plate away and get a huge bottle of water, making his way back and flopping down beside Beverly. 

She chuckles, watching him guzzle the water. "You gonna live?"

"Probably," Will says, and yawns. He should probably go get a shirt, but he can't really bring himself to care.

"Hannibal is a fictional L," Jimmy says, "and not the one from Death Note, we checked."

Will sighs. "Are you a Prohibition-era mobster who was prosecuted for pandering?"

"We already tried Lucky Luciano," Beverly says, and Will shrugs. 

Much like Monopoly, Botticelli inevitably outlasts player interest, and Will prefers to be ahead of the curve. He guzzles his water as Jimmy and Beverly narrow it down to a male fictional L written before 1920, in French, and then shuffles off back to his bunk to put on real clothes for the day. He also checks his phone for Alana's dog report and accompanying photos. Everyone looks like they're really enjoying time with Auntie Alana, and that, as always, makes it easier to be away from them. Will keeps wondering if he ought to invest in some kind of stuffed animal or fake fur covered cushion for travel. It really does help keep him calm to have something to pet.

Will wanders back into the main compartment with a vague idea of thanking Hannibal for breakfast with a little more apparent sincerity than last time just in time to see Zeller crack the case wide open. Hannibal is Arsène Lupin, and now, as in some terrible, ancient curse, Zeller must take his place.

"I really was grateful for breakfast," Will tells Hannibal, as Zeller picks a letter with all the resignation of the damned.

"I never thought you weren't, Will," he says, with a slow, sweet smile that leaves Will feeling completely awkward but not actually unhappy. He settles for fleeing up to the cab, where Peter is glad of the company. 

They're still on the highway, so it's not very scenic, but Peter turns out to know a lot about horses and the history of Motown, so they have plenty to talk about. Will is also happy to act as Peter's copilot. It reminds him of being on the move with Dad, cracking open soft drink cans and reading the map, and the nostalgia is soothing. The impression is only enhanced by Peter's choice of music, the same old country and rockabilly Dad loves. He proves himself excellent company by not treating it like a performance when Will starts singing along to Pistol Packin' Mama, joining in with a light, sweet voice that sounds like it has had some training.

"I'm glad you like what I brought," Peter says as the next track starts, "radio is a desert out here."

"I've driven this stretch in Zeller's van," Will says with a slight shudder, "I know."


	23. Bad News Travels Fast

Dog Star only collectively lasts for about two and a half rounds of Botticelli, but that's far better than average. Jimmy would hold out longer, but even for people who like it the game is no fun for two. Hannibal is reduced to courting motion sickness by checking his messages and a few Instagrams he follows. He sends Bedelia a few boredom texts and admires passing cows until he can justify putting together some sort of lunch. The variations of the road surface present only a small challenge, and he still has more than enough quality produce left to make something decent.

He's glad to find paper bowls with the paper plates. They're much better for holding salad, even when the bus starts jolting over roadwork. They spend a long time trapped on a miserable, bumpy stretch of repaving, worse than an honest dirt road. The sun is beating down on the work site, and Will leans on the window, watching the crew. The bus's windows are tinted too dark for anyone to look back. Hannibal moves to sit beside him, again with the excuse of better access to the air conditioning.

Will doesn't turn, but his shoulders stay relaxed, which Hannibal is starting to realize would be a smile of welcome in another man. "Repaving in hot weather always makes me think of Dolan's Cadillac," he says.

"I'm not familiar," Hannibal says, and if he were, he would lie.

"Stephen King short story. A meek little man's wife gets killed by a mobster and he goes full Monte Cristo to avenge her. Full Cask of Amontillado, actually."

At this point Hannibal is fascinated to hear almost anything Will bothers to say, but he is interested in the summary of the story that follows, a teacher taking a construction job that he can't physically withstand in order to be in place for repaving, which will allow him to bury his nemesis, enormous Cadillac and all. He goes more than a little mad and also destroys his back in the process, but Hannibal has to smile at the ending.

"It's a good one," Will says, "basically a Bachman book without the name. He tried to have a pseudonym, but it didn't work out. I feel like it deprived us of some damn fine crime stories."

"Are the Bachman books so romantic?" Hannibal murmurs, as the bus crawls along at walking speed.

Will turns, and gives him a genuine, if unwilling smile. "You are deeply troubled, you know that?"

"Aren't we all?" Hannibal asks, and Will laughs.

It takes them until a little past nightfall to reach their destination, and Hannibal is deeply grateful that they don't have a truly breakneck schedule and won't be expected to perform tonight. It's Sunday, but they could probably have found a decent crowd, but they're not on again until Monday night. Part of this is due to Bella being along, her remission still a glorious new thing. One can never take it for granted, but it hasn't even hit that coveted five-year mark yet.

The hotel is not the best Hannibal has ever been in, but it is far from the worst, to say nothing of other places he has been forced to spend the night. The bedspreads may be be repellant, but his suite has a balcony and he's sharing it with Will, so he can't really complain. Not that anything is higher priority than hanging his clothes, not even taking a real shower. That's the next thing, and he supplements the anemic toiletries with his own supplies.

He emerges to find Will stretched out on one of the repellent blue bedspreads, shirtless and flexing his bare feet. "Comfortable?" he asks.

"As I can be in a hotel. Warning: I _will_ have at least one nightmare while we're here, apologies in advance if it's loud or I have to wake you to keep from freaking out."

"I am very much anti freaking out, Will," Hannibal says, stretching out on the other bed and groaning softly, because it's a good quality mattress and he's really too old to be sleeping on a bus, "feel free to wake me."

"You're probably gonna regret that," Will says, "but okay."

They have a few minutes to just lie there, and then there's a knock on the door. Hannibal gets up to answer it since he's closer, looking through the peephole to see that it's Jack before opening the door for him. He gives Hannibal a slight smile but looks too worried to really concentrate on it. Will is sitting up on his bed as Jack approaches, and his face takes on a hard, wary look.

"What are you here to talk me into, Jack?"

He sighs. "Two things," he says, and pulls up a chair, sitting beside Will's bed.

"Worst first," Will snaps, and Hannibal can see the muscles in his neck and shoulders winding tighter than ever.

"Fine. You've got an interview with Lounds in forty-five minutes and she's going to be partially embedded with us for the rest of the tour."

"What the fuck, Jack?" Will doesn't raise his voice, but he doesn't really have to to infuse his words with a kind of exasperated betrayal that tells Hannibal entirely too much about their relationship. "You know how I feel about her, and after that whole thing with Zeller this is just in bad fucking taste."

Jack sighs again. "I know that. I also know that she may be America's best living rock writer and her columns have boosted sales. I talked to Zeller first, that's why you only get forty-five minutes notice."

"So what the fuck happened to the Unholy Chords tour?"

"Health problems. The Tattler dropped her on us with both boots, I just didn't waste time fighting it."

Will gives him a look of jaded disgust. "What's the less-shit news?"

"It's actually good sales news, I just know you. We're moving into the Southside Arena."

"What?!" Will yelps, and Hannibal surreptitiously uses his phone to discover that yes, it does have the usual 80,000 or so seats and that Dog Star has already sold about three-quarters of them. Apparently Panthalassa is a bigger mover than anyone has fully grasped. "They'll eat me alive!" Will continues, "You know that, Jack!"


	24. Interview With (Something Scarier Than) A Vampire

After Jack leaves, Will opens the minibar, takes out two of the tiny bottles of whiskey, and sits out on the balcony, staring over the city as he knocks them both back and then sits there, wondering if he should just go back in and get two more for his nearly-empty stomach, fuck the whole thing and be sloppy drunk when Lounds has to deal with him. Before he can make a decision on the matter, Hannibal comes out through the sliding glass doors to join him.

"Tell me about Ms. Lounds, Will," he says, settling into the other chair.

"She's a bitch," Will growls. "One bred to hunt. Zeller has more to complain about than I do." 

He's debating actually going into it when there's a knock at the main door. Hannibal gets up and glides over to answer it, letting Zeller in. Zeller has that look again, way too fucking guilty over what happened two years ago, and Will sighs, waving him over. He obediently takes Hannibal's seat, and Will scoots over and puts an arm around his shoulders while Hannibal finds another chair.

"Will, you know I--" it's always horrible to listen to Zeller having a feeling, so Will interrupts him for everyone's good.

"Zeller, please shut the fuck up. I don't care who knows I'm crazy. It doesn't actually matter, and I hate her and not you, okay?"

"Okay," Zeller mutters.

"Whichever of you feels more comfortable explaining the situation," Hannibal says, "please do so."

Zeller groans and stands up. "You tell him, I need a drink," he says, and heads out again, leaving a poignant silence behind him.

"So," Will says, "you remember that piece of hers about genius being next to madness, with all that mental health history?"

"I see," Hannibal says, and he looks very quietly furious.

"I don't fucking care who knows that I've been hospitalized more than once, but I do care when they fuck my bassist for the information. You've seen how he acts, you don't need that much protection unless you're pretty much all goddamn marshmallow fluff at heart, and she hurt him. It took months for him to stop beating himself up about it, and now all that hard work is gonna be for nothing."

"I see," Hannibal says again. They lapse into silence for a while, and then he speaks. "I will make us a cracker plate, and you will tell me everything Ms. Lounds knows about you."

Hannibal gets up and does just that, while Will looks up a few relevant articles on his phone and makes a short list of important facts. It's pretty brutal, since he's going to have to tell Hannibal all about himself, but if he sticks with Dog Star he'll eventually know all this shit anyway. After thanking Hannibal for the snacks and eating some sausage, Will reads off the list.

"She knows that I grew up broke, that I don't know my mother, that I've been hospitalized three times (one emergency hold, two voluntary,) and she's pretty sure I'm bi but it remains officially unconfirmed because it's not anyone's business."

"Thank you for enlightening me, Will," Hannibal says. "May I ask, as a friend, about the emergency hold?"

"Self-harm, matter of public record." Will says, shrugging. "I didn't want to die, I just needed some white noise." He chuckles. "I'd show you, but I'd have to take off my pants. Maybe later. Anyway, that's the thing that Jack doesn't get. I have... too much of a feel for other people. It can feel like telepathy but I'm probably just too good at reading microexpressions and body language for my own health. I've gotten better at keeping myself in my own head, but when I was younger it was pretty bad."

"So the pressure of a large audience is even greater than it should be."

"Exactly," Will says, and shakes his head. "I don't know how the hell I"m going to get through this, but I've said that about every single arena gig and I've made it through all of them. Barely. Threw up after a couple, got a wicked fever once, but that time I also had a dying dog and was completely failing to get with a mutual friend of ours."

"That does sound like an unacceptable level of stress," Hannibal says, and Will snorts.

"We'll just have to see how I do this time. I don't think I'm allowed to get sick."

By the time Will has explained everything and the band has made itself presentable (everyone but Zeller, who is very ostentatiously not caring, even as he starts to smell bad,) it's time to face Lounds. She's in a private room off of the bar, and favors them all with her shark's smile as they come slouching in. Jack is sitting at the table with her already, and the whole vibe is pretty much identical to being called up on the carpet by disapproving parents. Everyone takes a seat and orders a drink in grim silence.

"Oh, cheer up," Lounds tells them when the waiter withdraws. "I'm just here to meet the new guy and to set the tone." She offers her dainty little claw to Hannibal, and he shakes hands with her, smiling slightly.

"Good evening, Ms. Lounds," he says, and she laughs, her hands clicking over her laptop.

"Are you here to class the place up?"

"I like to think I do that everywhere I go," Hannibal says.

In the end, it's like a very quiet, very polite version of a man leaping onto a grenade. Hannibal tells her all about being a poor little Soviet orphan, and about the dilapidated grandeur of an old family estate before that. None of it even sounds real, but Will is gripped by the dead certainty that it is. The story of coming to America and doing most of his pre-med before haring off into music is already familiar, and Will watches Lounds lap all of it right up, eyes bright and avid. It's obnoxious that she seems to be genuinely comfortable in the same room as Zeller's wounded glower, but just ignoring him really is a best-case scenario.

Of course Lounds has questions for the rest of them, but they're mostly about the music, which is fine. And bitch she may be, but one that can smell complete lack of talent. She knows they're better off without Krendler, and has just enough courtesy not to say it out loud.


	25. Ready Set Roll

On his own account, Hannibal sort of enjoys talking to Ms. Lounds. She has a sharklike, amoral hunger for knowledge that makes him nostalgic for his time as a student, but of course he's very concerned for his bandmates, all of whom are glad to escape, even faced with the bitter knowledge that this was only the first encounter. Hannibal can only hope that they have too much sense to let the presence of Ms. Lounds ruin the tour for them. Zeller might not be able to marshal that much sense, but now that Hannibal has experienced Ms. Lounds's beguiling physical presence, he has to admit that in Zeller's position he would be quite dismal.

Everyone goes slouching off in search of room service. Even sitting up at the restaurant like adults is too much to ask, and Hannibal would rather watch Will peruse the menu than do it by himself. As soon as the door is shut behind them Will strips down to his boxers and t-shirt, resuming his previous sprawl on the bed. Stretched out on his belly and studying the menu, he looks surly and gawky and so adorable that Hannibal can hardly stand it.

Since they seem to be in for the evening, Hannibal hangs up his jacket and his tie, rolling up his sleeves and lounging on his own bed to examine his options. Breakfast is available, but he doesn't like to trust anything as delicate as an omelet to a cook he doesn't know. On the other bed Will is grumbling to himself that their little weekday gigs better goddamn well stay little or he's gonna burn it all down.

"Starting with myself," he groans, rolling onto his back and putting the open menu over his face.

"Please don't burn yourself down, Will. At least give me time to gather some worthy incense." Under the menu, Will chuckles. "At least some cinnamon sticks," Hannibal continues, and the chuckle turns into a real laugh.

Since Will is the one who has stayed here before, Hannibal defers to his expertise and just orders a sandwich and fries. It's not the kind of thing he usually eats, but when it arrives he must concede that it's an excellent example of its kind. The lettuce and tomato are crisp and cool, the bacon is crisp and hot, and the bread is acceptable. Will laughs when he says so.

"You Europeans and your standards," he says, tucking an errant piece of lettuce back into his burger.

"Someone has to uphold the culinary banner of western civilization, Will."

"Aren't you technically Baltic?

"Yes, but syncratized."

Will sighs, gazing down at his plate. "I'm starting to wonder if it's too late in the day to get fucked up."

"It's only eight o'clock," Hannibal says, in his most innocent voice, and Will gives him a look that lets him know exactly how ineffective it is.

There's a knock on the door, and Will hops up to open it, letting Beverly in as if their conversation has summoned her. "So," she says, "I was thinking it wasn't too late to start rolling and that we'd all want to after dealing with Lounds..."

"Band telepathy," Will says. "Hannibal was just being my shoulder-devil about that."

"We did promise him an equitable drug-sharing enterprise," Beverly says, grinning.

Hannibal has Views about supplements, so he makes a pilgrimage to a drugstore while the others dig out sensory toys. Will says that all he really needs is a pack of gum, so he goes with Hannibal, looking kind of keyed up already. "Jack hates it when we get seriously fucked up," Will says, "but a: he's in the wrong line of work for that, and b: fuck him."

He also says that watching Hannibal putter about the aisles of the pharmacy section makes him feel dangerously close to hysterical laughter, and he goes a few aisles away to compose himself. He meets Hannibal at the register with Gatorade and a couple cheap children's toys that might be fun to touch later, and grabs five packs of Big Red. Some people like mentholated things when they're rolling, but apparently Will prefers cinnamon.

If the man at the register has anything to say about two grown men with a basket of obvious raver paraphernalia, he has the decency not to say anything. He just rings up the ALCAR and magnesium and vitamin C and other little vials, the five packs of gum, all the Gatorade, and the light-up squishy rubber balls and the fun-fur covered pillow without a word.

"Exemplary service," Will says as they walk out, and Hannibal smiles.

"I find that judgmental clerks respond very well to this look," he says, and gives Will a sample of the flat, feline glare that dares the other party to even think that he isn't the strange one here. He can see that is has some effect even as a demonstation, but he doesn't really mean it so it's easy for Will to laugh in self-defense. 

Hannibal gives him a brief, toothy grin, and they walk through the dawning streetlights and the dimming twilight to the hotel, where of course the others have made them a kind of pillow fort on the beds and between them, with a blanket nest on the floor at the foot of the beds for more space. Jimmy and Zeller don't travel light enough to have as much space, and as The Girl, Beverly always has a small room of her own in hotels. It's a good setup for a quiet, sensible, early-tour roll. There will be insanity later, Hannibal is sure, but for now they're just going to sprawl out together and hopefully be no trouble whatsoever to staff or other guests.

Beverly beams at them as they come in. All the lights are off, but she's standing on a chair to hang glowsticks on the lighting fixture, others shining in soft colors from around the room. "Welcome home," she says, and a glance at Will lets Hannibal know that it means more than it should.

"Do not say shit like that after it kicks in, I'll cry," Will warns her, and carries his bags to the table, setting everything on it neatly. Hannibal joins him and soon they have it so nicely arranged that Zeller laughs at them.

"Just because you're jealous of my homemaking skills," Hannibal murmurs across the supplement jars, and that makes Zeller cackle.

Will raises an eyebrow at him, and then looks to Beverly because, as the only responsible person in the band, she always holds their drugs. And according to Will is the best at scoring in the first place, being a beautiful woman instead of one of two scungy guys (Will and Zeller) or somebody's dad (Jimmy.) "Have you guys dropped already?"

"We thought about it," she said, "but we were virtuous. I think he's just happy to have a chance to not brood tonight."

"You and me both, kid," Will tells him, and Zeller snorts.

"Well, now that you're back, can we get going?"he says, and Will smiles.

"Yeah, Z, we can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1\. Meanwhile, that guy back at the Walgreens they just walked out of is like, "Fuck, ancient gay ravers, noooooo the mental images!"  
> 2\. I actually sang a little song about this fic finally earning its Recreational Drug Use tag. It's a big moment in a rock band AU's life.


	26. Parachutes And Hannibal's Misspent Youth

Since they need a solid two hours to get the best out of Hannibal's cocktail of ALCAR, ALA, magnesium, and Vitamin C, everyone takes those immediately as Jimmy scrolls through their movie options to find something that none of them will object to to kill about two hours.

"The real problem," Jimmy says as makes his way down the list, "is that we need something that won't key us up too much but doesn't suck. We could watch Alien, but if we do that Will will spend the whole roll watching for xenomorphs."

"That is to be avoided," Hannibal agrees, and Will can feel his ears going red.

"That was just the one time," he mumbles, and Beverly soothingly pats his shoulder.

"To be fair, The Thing is pretty creepy, we should've known better," she says, and then looks to Hannibal. "Would you like to come and inspect the stash?"

Beverly always lets people take a good long look at the drugs, and Will loves her for it. He settles with Jimmy and Zeller, all of them reading the listings as Hannibal examines Beverly's little bag of powder, looking touched at her invitation to do so. She's reasonably sure of what she has or they wouldn't be doing this, of course, but Hannibal has never done this with them before.

"I'm very careful about what I put into my body, and the American Ecstacy market is flooded with garbage," Hannibal is saying when Will looks back at them again, dipping out of Jimmy and Zeller's argument about whether Megapiranha is so bad it's good or just so bad it's bad, and Beverly grins at him.

"Besides," she says, "you are the one who went to medical school."

"And to some legendary Parisian raves," he says, and Zeller snorts.

"I can just see you now, dancing your skinny ass off with a pacifier clenched in your teeth," he says, and Hannibal gives him the slightly alarming and just as hot expression he reserves for judgmental retail employees. It's a bit much for Will, especially combined with the images of Hannibal's misspent youth that are flooding his mind.

"You hush now," Beverly says, "our Hannibal was surely a fine figure of a raver."

"Thank you, Beverly," he says, with Great Dignity. "Were we planning on insufflating this?"

"I was thinking parachutes," she says. "It's less of a mess and Jimmy hates snorting things."

"I prefer to guard my sense of smell," Hannibal agrees, and goes to the bathroom for paper, sitting at the table to daintily peel the two-ply apart. 

Will wanders over to watch him, and sincerely hopes that he'll ask before putting Hannibal's fingers in his mouth when he's rolling. Hannibal looks up at him and smiles, and Will has one of those vertiginous feelings of telepathy, a trippy certainty that Hannibal knows what he's thinking and that he also doesn't mind. Will blushes and squirms, deeply relieved when Beverly comes over with the bag, a compact, and the old library card she reserves for this sort of thing.

"I am pleased to see such lovely, clean powder," Hannibal says as she cuts it into five reasonable doses. 

For drug purposes most of them are the same size, but there's a grain or two more or less in each parachute. Jimmy and Hannibal have both taken more in their time, and Zeller is a bit of a lightweight for E. So is Will, for that matter, a bit too prone to fevers to take a lot at one time, while Beverly needs a lot for a slender woman. At last she has each one neatly twisted up, extra paper hanging off of them to remind everyone to wait for the supplements to work. They may be willing to fly in the face of Jack's sense of professionalism on the petty things, but not for the important ones. They will not be too hungover to put on a decent show even if it is going to be Monday in a bar.

Beverly uses a lipstick to mark the excess paper on each dose with an initial, and then she and Hannibal join in the great search for a decent movie that doesn't have anything too alarming in it. By the time they settle on The Sandlot they have less than ninety minutes to wait, and Hannibal hands out the doses as the spirit of Babe Ruth visits Benny, tearing the extra paper off of each one in turn, like a ticket stub.

"Buy the ticket, take the ride," Will mumbles, looking down at the dose resting in his palm. 

He swills it down with a slug of blue-flavored Gatorade, and then tips back into the blankets to wait out the comeup. E is one of the speediest things Will has ever enjoyed, and before long he starts to feel that familiar sort of warm vibration in his body. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in the long, dog-like sigh he always does when he's on his way up. Beverly laughs and flops down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as they just breathe together and listen to the others discuss their remaining entertainment options.

"If we can't find cartoons, fuck it," Zeller says, and they switch the TV off in favor of gathering around Jimmy's mp3 player to make a nice, long, eclectic playlist. Jimmy has the best speakers and the best selection. The man curates endless wads of random sound files, of course he has all kinds of music.

By the time the music starts, Will needs to take off his shirt. Sometimes this part is more than a little rough. Everything is bright, even with his eyes closed, and he always gets too hot and a little sick. He sits there in the glow-sticked dark and takes deep breaths. Beverly sits and breathes with him as Hannibal tries to teach Zeller to waltz, to Manic Depression, because it has the right kind of rhythm and they both feel like moving and touching someone. 

Zeller is acting like the whole thing is a joke, but Will can feel that he wants to get this right, that he cares about Hannibal's opinion and that's why he always gives him shit when they're sober. It's a relief to see Hannibal starting to understand it, but then there's Jimmy crawling into the pillow fort by himself and he's in love with Zeller and never seems to be able to do anything about it. Will clambers up onto the bed with him, hugging him tightly. Jimmy stops radiating that wistfulness and gives Will a nice, big, drugged out smile.

"Hey, keed," he says, wrapping his arms around Will. "Feeling okay?"

"Yeah," Will says, and sighs again. "I abandoned Beverly." He pulls back to look down at her. "Beverly, I'm sorry I abandoned you!"

She just laughs up at at him and reaches into her shirt, unhooking her bra and sliding it out of one sleeve, setting it aside as she goes in search of the glittery water snakes Jimmy keeps for times like this.


	27. Pillow Forts and Pool Parties

Ingesting MDMA again is a bit like coming home. The whole experience is slathered in a thick patina of nostalgia, and it's good to dance with Zeller, to communicate with him without words or music. Rolling, Hannibal is filled with compassion for obnoxious bastards like Zeller, and he doesn't mind sharing it, pulling Zeller into a hug at the end of the song. In testament to the efficacy of entactogens, he chuckles and returns the embrace.

"So I guess it's kicking in," he says, and Hannibal has to laugh. Zeller really is kind of adorable, just enough like Will to gently pluck at the same responses. It's not just the drug that makes it hard to let go.

"Try to remember how to waltz when we're sober," he says, and wonders if Zeller is getting the other meaning layer there or not.

Either way, now it's time to join the others in the pillow fort, because pillow forts are lovely. Will is a vision, shirtless and sprawled in Jimmy's arms, and he gives Hannibal a shy smile that makes his fingers twitch with the urge to grab a pencil and try to capture it on paper. Jimmy looks over Will's head at Hannibal, apparently deeply amused by something. Perhaps the entire universe, it's hard to say at this point. His smile widens as Zeller crawls in after Hannibal, and Zeller beams at him.

"Hey," he says, soft and a little husky.

"Hey," Jimmy replies, and the whole thing is so fucking ridiculous that Hannibal is filled with the desperate urge to grab them both by the hair and make them kiss. 

He settles for looking over to contemplate Beverly's beauty. She's sitting up by the headboard with the light-up rubber ball in her lap and a water snake toy in each hand. There's a whole nest of glowsticks and water snakes in front of her, and soon Hannibal is squishing a purple glitter filled specimen from hand to hand, childishly happy with all the colored light. Will snickers something about water snakes being phallic, and Jimmy laughs, snuggling in against his back.

It's Beverly who fires the first volley in the Great Water Snake Battle Of '17, squishing a snake right out of her hand to fly across the tiny space and smack Jimmy in the forehead. She snatches up another snake and he does the same, and soon they're all firing them at each other, grabbing each other's spent projectiles off of the floor, dodging all over the room and trying not to make too much noise, surely thumping the floor and all four walls.

Eventually Jimmy calls a halt to hydrate, and Hannibal is filled with affection for him. And for everyone and everything else on earth, really, and he lets out the unhinged little giggle that never happens when he's sober. Zeller and Will give him the same suspicious, sidelong look, and soon Hannibal is laughing so hard he can barely breathe. He gets a grip on it and swigs water and Gatorade in turn until he's definitely hydrated enough, and then it's time to pull what's left of the fort down into one massive nest on the floor, where they form one confiding pile of limbs and heartbeats, discussing whether or not the pool is still open.

"If it is, I'm goin'," Will mutters, and Beverly giggles, reaching over to pat his head where it rests on Hannibal's shoulder.

"Of course you are, sweetheart," she coos.

For the moment, lying here together is entirely too pleasant for anyone to get up, and then Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space starts up. Hannibal has always been fond of this song, but something about its spacey harmonics plunges Zeller into sudden depression. Given that they all had to face Ms. Lounds not long ago, Hannibal understands. When Zeller starts whimpering into Jimmy's neck about how he thought they had a _connection_ , Hannibal gets up and skips to the next track, then joins the rest in battening onto Zeller and hugging him until he feels better.

The whole time Beverly is biting her lips to keep from smiling and when Zeller is calmer she starts to giggle. "Don't laugh at my paaaaaiinn," Zeller whines, and she kisses his cheek.

"You're silly to be sad over Lounds," she coos. "She's not worth it and life is great."

Zeller has to smile a little. "...Yeah," he says, "I guess you're right."

"I'm so right," Beverly chirps, and kisses his forehead.

"I'm gonna find out where she lives and burn it down," Jimmy mutters, hugging Zeller more tightly.

Zeller chuckles. "You don't have to go that far, but thanks."

"Pool now?" Will asks, and Zeller nods.

"Pool now."

Luckily for them, the pool is technically open and also deserted, so no one climbs a fence or does anything worse than reel down the hallways giggling, in robes over swimsuits. Naturally, Will insists on shrouding his loveliness in huge board shorts. They're blue, with fish on them, and they don't do a very good job of hiding Will's wiry grace. Zeller's are black and almost as voluminous, while Jimmy actually has a t-shirt on and Hannibal really needs to talk to him about his body issues. Beverly is really the best dressed, in a red tankini with white polka dots. She has her hair twisted up to keep it out of the water and Hannibal is glad that he brought his sketchbook. They're able to really spread out, so there's plenty of room for Hannibal to sit Beverly down for a quick portrait while Jimmy makes sure the Gatorade and glowsticks are in order and Will and Zeller slide into the water.

"I hope this turns out like a '40s pinup," Beverly says, putting a hand behind her head and extending a leg in a classic pose.

Hannibal chuckles. "I'll have to see what I can do," he says, glancing over the top of the page at her.

She grins back at him. "I have faith in you."

It doesn't take Hannibal long to finish his drawing, and once he has his notebook in place of reasonable safety, he drapes his robe across a lounge chair and joins the others in the water. It's a warm night, and the coolness on his skin feels like everything he has ever wanted. Beverly sculls past him and gives him a big Ecstasy smile that he has no choice but to return. In one corner of the shallow end, a lighter flicks, and Hannibal and Beverly both skim over to Zeller's side as he lights a joint, carefully starting a nice, even draw before passing it to Jimmy, who takes it like an indirect kiss.


	28. Marco Polo

Will doesn't smoke a lot of weed on his own time, but he is fond of it. Sometimes if it's too good he gets paranoid, but Zeller has known him for years and knows how to mix his strains to keep that from happening. Terrifying 25% THC legal product for the real psychos, mixed on a fifty-fifty basis with the god-fearing normal weed he grows in a well-ventilated walk-in closet at home. The end product is powerful, but not the kind of powerful where Will gets to spend the rest of the night being terrified of shadows, mirrors, and anything that moves too fast.

They're in a line along one edge of the pool, and Will is on Zeller's right, so when it's his turn Hannibal float-walks over to him, the joint between a dry thumb and forefinger. Will dries his own hand as best he can on his hair, and Hannibal's smile widens, like he has never seen anything so adorable in his life. Will squirms but just thanks him and takes his hit. It's nice and resinous and green-flavored, and Zeller grins at him when he can stop coughing long enough to say so.

"I like to think I could place at the county fair," Zeller says, and Hannibal goes back to where he was, to keep from fucking up the rotation, another demonstration of his near-flawless manners.

Dog Star tries to be a responsible band and not fuck up hotels, but they ash into the water since it's an outdoor pool and bugs die in it constantly, wasps and flies by day, and moths by night, drawn to the lunar glow of the underwater lights. Once the joint is absolutely too short to smoke and Beverly is pretty sure she just burned her fingers on it but won't be sure until the E wears off, Zeller heaves himself out of the pool to stash the pitiful little thing with his shoes, and comes back to join the game of Marco Polo that Beverly always demands they play when they're fucked up anywhere near a pool.

Will learns a few things about Hannibal over the course of the game. The very first is that he's European and/or gay enough to wear a goddamn Speedo, the second is that he's seriously cut for a classical music nerd, the third is that he has extremely touchable-looking chest hair, and the fourth is that he is an absolute beast at Marco Polo. He can leave the water and return to it without the tiniest ripple. It's like the guy from Apocalypse Now or some shit, and everyone gets caught at least once because they're busy staring at these feats of stealth amphibiousity. 

During a break to hydrate and to play with the glow sticks Jimmy brought, Zeller asks Hannibal how he came to be such a fucking ninja, and Hannibal laughs. "I am trained in gymnastics," he says, "and also the exquisite art of the samurai sword." He pauses. "I guess I actually am, a little. My aunt taught me some," he says, sounding the way Beverly does about baton twirling. "She was from a very traditional Japanese family. Marrying my uncle was an act of defiance."

"I hope it was the romantic kind and not the stupid kind," Jimmy says, and Hannibal laughs.

"It seemed to work out for them," he says, and finishes his Gatorade, since Beverly and Jimmy are already back in the pool, making increasingly annoying noises that won't stop until they start the game again.

Hannibal is never honestly caught, but he graciously takes his turn after everyone else has. He's just as ludicrous this way, skimming through the water like a shark to catch everyone in turn. Will manages to get most of the way out of the water once, but Hannibal's hand wraps around his ankle as he draws his last foot up, and the weird frisson of erotic terror that comes with the sensation makes him let out a shrieky burst of laughter, leaping into the deep end the way he used to have to do as a kid in the face of horribly-timed adolescent erections. At least he isn't actually hard right now. He kicks his way up to the surface and throws his head back to get his wet hair out of his face and strips the water off of his eyelashes before he opens his eyes. 

Hannibal is treading water nearby, and cocks his head, watching Will. "Are you all right?" he asks, and Will gives him a big grin, his heart still pounding.

"Yeah," he says, and swims back to the center of the pool, which is the designated spawn point.

Time is always slippery on drugs, but after a while they get bored, and their hands and feet are extremely pruney. They're careful to pick up each and every glow stick, though everything is bright and blurry around the edges and they're bound to forget at least one. Still, the place looks plausible when they're wrapped in their robes again, and they manage to keep their giggling fits at a low volume on the way back to their rooms. The comedown has already started, but that's all right. It's late and they're tired, going much longer would probably only end in tears. The others follow him and Hannibal into their room so that Jimmy can collect his mp3 player and Hannibal can dispense melatonin to everyone.

"There will be 5-HTP later," he says, "but just this for now."

"Thanks, Mom," Jimmy says, and it's a testament to the power of E that Hannibal gives him a sweet, genuine smile, with no trace of that flat-eared cat look he gives Jimmy sometimes.

"You're welcome, dear," he says, and Jimmy beams at him, stepping out into the hall with Beverly and Zeller.

The quiet when the door shuts is sudden and loud, and it's probably not just chlorine making Will itch. "Who gets the first shower?" he asks, and Hannibal smiles at him.

"You do," he says, and sits on the foot of his bed, scrolling through their movie options while Will flees to the bathroom.


	29. Timing Is Everything

Hannibal's skin itches with drying pool water, but he's glad let Will go first. He seems to need to collect himself. While he waits, rather than let his imagination follow Will as minutely as it wants, Hannibal investigates the room service menu and finds that the kitchen is open for another hour. He notes the time and writes down his order. He won't presume to order for Will for another thirty minutes. Will is still in the shower when Hannibal has decided on his order, and he writes it down on the hotel stationary for future reference before perusing the movie listings again. He flicks through the actual broadcast channels just to be sure, and hits on The Twilight Zone. As far as Hannibal is concerned, it's much more homey and comforting than creepy.

When Will steps out of the bathroom on a cloud of humid air, there's still fifteen minutes to go. "Hey," he says, and he's all adorable and fluffy and clean and it's a bit much for Hannibal to take.

"Hey," he says, letting his face form into a huge, silly smile that it still wants to, even as the drug ebbs. He stands and stretches, gesturing toward the television. "Please, change it if bothers you," he says, "and I would recommend eating something."

"Probably a solid idea," Will says, sitting on the end of Hannibal's bed. "This your order?"

"Yes, please call it in. I hate to order any closer to close than I have to."

"My boss at the Doggy Diner always used to say that open meant open, goddammit, but even he was pretty pissed when someone came in at five minutes to close," Will says, lounging back with the menu in a way that brings his towel to the very edge of decency. 

Of course the wretched thing goes no further, and Hannibal goes into the bathroom where everything is still damp and the shower just barely smells like Will. He hates to switch it on and knock that odor out of the air, but he needs to wash too badly to do otherwise. The available soap and shampoo are surprisingly acceptable, and Hannibal takes his time with them. He puts everything back neatly when he's done with it, and emerges out of the steam (Hannibal is experienced enough to take a hot shower without scalding himself) to find Will on his own bed, wearing his pajama bottoms again and clinging to a pillow in a way that Hannibal recognizes.

"I called it in," he says, his voice trying to become a teary croak. Ah, mood-swings. Hannibal pulls his own pajama bottoms on under his towel, and then hangs it up and goes to join Will, who looks surprised, but far from displeased.

"You look like you need a hug," he says, as a lovely girl from Prague said to him when he was seventeen, and Will nods, letting go of the pillow to cling to Hannibal instead. 

He can't help purring, wrapping his arms around Will, on their sides on the almost certainly unlaundered bedspread. He's still not quite sober, and even if he were the feeling of Will's body against his would be incredible. He feels so delicate, fine-boned and taut, one of those people eternally smaller than they look. Hannibal holds him tightly, feeling his quick heartbeat slow down, their breathing sliding into synch.

"Thanks," Will mumbles, and his lips are moving against the hollow of Hannibal's clavicle and he isn't sure if he's glad or angry that he has always had a hard time getting hard on E.

"It's okay. Did you feel lonely?"

"Pretty much, yeah." He chuckles. "Some of it might be being without the dogs. Very reliable for the whole therapeutic cuddles thing."

"If this is therapeutic, it is mutually so," Hannibal tells him, and Will snorts.

"I kinda want to give you a kiss right here," Will mumbles, barely audible, "and that wouldn't be therapeutic."

"I don't know," Hannibal says, with elaborate insouciance, "it might be."

"I'm not sure if that's informed consent," Will says, and Hannibal is about to inform him of a few things when there's a light knock at the door. The look of utter panic Will pulls away to give him is almost funny. Almost.

"It's all right," Hannibal croons, stroking Will's hair for just a moment before getting up and getting his robe. 

It takes mental discipline, they are still rolling a bit and Will's hair has become very very soft as it dries, but Hannibal knows what must be done. He pulls his wallet out of his pants on his way to the door, because Dog Star may be running a tab, but Hannibal has never met anyone in the American service sector who wants to share their tip money with Uncle Sam when they don't have to.

The boy with their tray is very glad to be tipped in cash, and is also a fan. Physically and emotionally tired and no longer buoyed by drugs, Will gets up, puts on a robe despite his regular stage appearances shirtless, and signs a napkin for the kid. His joy is radiant, and he's a very a polite child, getting Hannibal's signature as well, even though Hannibal is such a recent acquisition and no one ever watches the keyboardist. Will's smile actually reaches his eyes, but he's very tense by the time the door shuts. He leans his back against it like a man who has just slammed a door shut in the face of some terrible but containable threat, and just breathes for a moment.

"Are you all right?" Hannibal asks for the second time tonight.

"Yeah," Will says, and looks up with a more relaxed smile. "Sweet kid, I just didn't need that right this second."

"True, but you do need to eat," Hannibal says, and arranges everything on the table by the window.

Will looks like he wants to say something, but gives up on it and sits down. His awkwardness vanishes in the presence of food and he devours his meal. Usually good table manners are a necessity with Hannibal, but every time he sees it, there's something graceful about Will's savagery.


	30. An Easily-Resumed Conversation

As long as Will is busy cramming a French dip into his mouth, he doesn't have to worry about anything else, so there's a certain awkwardness when his plate is clean. Hannibal has been quietly puttering around for the past few minutes, and now he smiles when Will looks up at him. He's stretched out on his bed again, and opens his arms to Will.

"I believe our conversation was interrupted," he says, and something like a shockwave of longing spreads across Will's skin.

"It was," Will mutters, and swallows hard. 

He makes himself stop biting his lip and stand up. He hopes that his attempts to hold himself together don't look too much like genuine reluctance, and covers the distance as quickly as he can without scrambling. He can't help a quiet noise in his throat as Hannibal takes him into his arms, and hides his face in Hannibal's chest for a moment. The tail end of the drugs are still with them, and Hannibal is all heat and hair and heartbeat, with smooth skin and his own particular scent, long familiar from their time in the studio.

"There," Hannibal murmurs, pulling the blankets over them, "that's more comfortable."

Will shivers, and nods. "...We were talking about informed consent, weren't we?"

"We were, and I was about to inform you that I am barely high anymore and have known for some time now that I would be delighted to let you kiss any part of me that you like."

"...Oh. Okay," Will says. 

They're so close that his lips are moving against Hannibal's skin anyway, but it still feels momentous to actually kiss it. Hannibal goes very still, a little tense but the tension of trying to commit every aspect of an experience to memory. Will trembles and starts to cover Hannibal's chest and throat with kisses, flinching when Hannibal moves and relaxing again when he slides one hand into Will's hair, cupping the back of his skull, following rather than guiding his movements. He shivers and lets out a barely audible moan as Will sucks one nipple into his mouth, grip tightening on his hair to hold him there. It's probably really weird to be doing this before kissing Hannibal on the mouth, but Will can't really bring himself to try to correct that, making muffled, happy noises as he tangles their legs together and switches sides.

If Hannibal finds anything weird about this approach he doesn't say so. He just purrs and holds Will close, letting out such a sweet, satisfied sigh when Will gently bites that he knows the E hasn't fully worn off because he only gets about half-way hard at the sound, rather than draining all the blood from his brain.

"Come here," Hannibal murmurs, and tugs him up and into a kiss. 

The instant they touch Will knows why he didn't do this before. The old saw about sex and pizza holds true for kissing, as far as Will is concerned, and this one is a hell of a lot better than just okay. He melts completely, making a helpless little noise into Hannibal's mouth and letting him roll them over, pressing Will onto his back and ranging over him. It should feel like too much but it's perfect instead, Hannibal's forearms boxing Will's head in in a way that feels cozy instead of claustrophobic. He clutches at Hannibal and knows that his nails are digging into his back. In the middle of thinking that he should ease up, Hannibal shudders and groans in his arms. Will gives him an experimental scratch and he does it again, hips twitching forward in a way that feels like he can't help it. 

They can't grind very well, too tried and E'd out, but they do a little anyway, Hannibal resting his forehead against Will's and staring into his eyes. Will can't help a strangled little noise, but he doesn't look away, legs wrapping around Hannibal's hips. Trapped on the plateau as they are, they just move together for a while, more about contact than anything else. Since there's no question of having a real goal, they come to a stop very gradually as they get more and more tired, lips bruised and limbs tangled. At last they're almost still, Will trembling gently as Hannibal tips them onto their sides again.

"I won't make you sleep alone if you don't want to," Hannibal says, which is a very polite acknowledgment of Will's desperate clinging, "but we should probably take our melatonin."

Will chuckles. "Y-yeah, probably." 

It's hard to let go of Hannibal enough to sit up, but he manages it, and they take their chalky little tablets. Now is as good a time as any to engage in basic upkeep, and they take the opportunity to brush their teeth, sharing the sink like they've always done it. On their way out of the bathroom Hannibal kisses Will's cheek, and can feel a very silly smile that has nothing to do with drugs spreading across his face.

In order to really be a self-sufficient adult, Will should probably sleep in his own bed, but he does a lot of things he doesn't want to almost every goddamn day of his life, and he just doesn't have the strength for this. He crawls into bed and watches as Hannibal shuts off the lights and then comes to join him, setting an alarm on his phone. They don't have be anywhere until eight pm tomorrow, but Will supposes that it's always good to be sure of some lead time. Hannibal settles onto his back and guides Will to rest his head on his chest, purring softly and lacing his fingers into Will's hair again. Will sighs, one leg between Hannibal's, and one arm wrapped around his waist. They fit together so well that it should make Will nervous, but it's not really bothering him right now.

"Thank you for joining me, Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will laughs.

"Not doing it would've been way harder, but you're welcome," he mumbles.

Hannibal's smile is audible in the dark. "I'm glad that this was the easy choice."

"You know I like you," Will grumbles, snuggling even closer, "don't be an asshole."

"And I like you," he says, stroking Will's hair and continuing down to rub his shoulders and the nape of his neck, "very much." He starts to talk in what Will has to assume is Lithuanian, now, and Will lets the sounds slide over him in the absence of their meaning, soothed into a deeper sleep than he usually manages on tour.


End file.
